


Sanctuary

by DarkFairytale



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996) Fusion, Bullying, Canon character deaths, Cruelty, M/M, Warning: racial prejudice, Warning: racist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 117,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkFairytale/pseuds/DarkFairytale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1400s Paris, four men from the Court of Miracles fight for justice against a Judge who would see all gypsies wiped out from Paris' streets. Whilst the Judge grows increasingly obsessed with finding the four men he considers loose ends: the traitorous soldier, the King of the Court, the witch who survived Savoy and the boy who escaped death.</p><p>Based on Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And OT4 all the way, folks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a prompt that I posted ages ago on the kinkmeme, but the plotbunny got the better of me and I have self-filled (the idea of all the boys living in the Court and wearing gold hoop earrings was too good not to write). The original prompt can be found here: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1361341#cmt1361341
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> This fill is unbeta'd so all mistakes (spelling and historical inaccuracies) are mine. Also, as an additional warning, the term 'gypsies'/'gypsy' is used throughout this fic, because the title was used commonly at the time.
> 
> I do not own the characters, or the basis of the story. They belong to the Musketeers (BBC and Dumas) and The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Disney and Hugo). It is just the writing that is mine.   
> I do not give permission for this work to be used elsewhere or sent to any of the cast/crew of the Musketeers etc. etc.

**5 June 1457**

 

Summertime made ‘begging’ easier. It was possible to sit or perform on the street without your fingers growing numb and stiff with cold, and without frost gathering on your clothes and in your hair. The bite of the chill could be fierce and unforgiving, breath ghosting before your face, escaping from between chapped lips. Food and coin were scarcer in the winter months, pickpocketing was harder and although the best way to stay warm was to dance and street-perform, the ground was often slippery, or worse, thick with snow. Playing instruments was the usual answer for making money in those months, though the strings of a lute were harsh on frozen fingers, and the pipes worsening sore, cracked lips.

When it was summer, it was better. It was warm. On a nice day, more people took to the streets. Pockets were filled with coin and although that meant that stealing was easier, people also felt a bit more generous to a young orphan sitting on the cobbled streets of Paris. All manner of entertainments could be performed because it was bearable to stay outside all of the day, and earn enough to fill your belly for the next day. That was what Porthos had found, anyway.

This day was a good summer day. Nobility had ventured into the heart of the city or to wander by the Seine. The soldiers patrolling the streets were few in number in the area where Porthos had settled himself for the day. The gypsies of the Court of Miracles tended to separate and cover different parts of Paris each day, in order to avoid arrest. Arrest was more likely, these days, because as word had it, a new rising figure in the Christian heart of Paris, the Judge Armand Richelieu, was beginning to implement a tougher stance toward the amount of street performers and travellers that lived and moved in and around Paris.

Porthos had learned all this from older gypsies that resided in the ‘Cour des miracles’, a safe and secret location deep within the heart of Paris, that only those in the know knew where to find it. Porthos had been lucky to stumble upon it himself as a 5-year-old orphan, and for the last three years he had lived there with other orphans like Flea and Charon, learning from the adults the tricks of the trade; how to steal, how to entertain, how to beg, how to stay alive. In the day he did his jobs on the streets of Paris, and in the night he secreted away to the Court, to sleep and live in safety.

This day was a good summer day. And not that Porthos knew it yet, but would be one that would change the course of his future. And that change came in the form of a boy.

Porthos noticed the rich family heading in his direction almost immediately. They stood out from the riff-raff and the townspeople. The couple that walked ahead of their sons were elegantly dressed in deep, rich fabrics and the two boys that followed were no less well dressed. The eldest of the two boys was well-groomed, with neat brunette hair, inquisitive pale eyes and was dressed in dark green clothing that Porthos supposed would have been considered to be ‘casual dress’ to the wealthy. He must have been a similar age to Porthos, if a year or two younger. The boy dragged along his younger brother, who was a miniature version of the elder.

“Come along Thomas.” Porthos overheard the elder boy complain to his brother as they began to lag behind their parents.  
Thomas appeared to be tired and was dragging his feet.

The boys came to a stop and the elder brother sighed and rolled his eyes, before they landed on Porthos watching, mid-roll. The pale eyes of the other boy dropped down to the small hat of coins sitting in front of Porthos, before snapping back up to Porthos’ face curiously.

“Olivier! Thomas!”

Porthos broke his gaze from the boy to glance down the street at the parents. They were stopped, looking back at their sons, appearing not to have noticed Porthos’ existence at the side of the street. Porthos looked back at the boy – presumably named Olivier - and the boy looked back at him.

“Coming, Mother.” The other boy called, taking his little brother’s hand again.

As soon as the parents had turned around, however, Olivier was digging in his pocket and approaching Porthos.

Porthos started backward a little, glancing at the parents down the street, but they weren’t watching. A clinking noise had Porthos’ attention turning back, and Olivier was right in front of him.

“Olivier?” Thomas was asking his brother. “What are you doing?”

Olivier ignored his brother, dropping a second coin into Porthos’ hat, winking at him and then he was off, pulling his brother down the street, talking animatedly with him. Porthos stared open mouthed after him, and Olivier glanced over his shoulder only once as he walked away. When he did he sent Porthos a smile. Porthos felt his face light up in response.

A minute or two later, they were gone. But Porthos could not shake the image of the other boy from his mind. The same age as him, but of a much higher station, taking notice of him, and caring enough to give him coins that he most likely was not allowed to give to the likes of Porthos.

He didn’t forget Olivier, not the next day, or the day after that. And every time Porthos thought of that inquisitive face, he smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

**7 September 1464**

 

Olivier had a fascination with the Court of Miracles. The mystery intrigued him, the history interested him, the people fascinated him. 

  
In only five years Judge Richelieu, who was often discussed by his father, had tightened a hold of authorities in Paris, and had taken a harsh stance against the street performers and travellers that hid away in the Court of Miracles. It was Paris’ biggest and most well-kept secret. Only the gypsy community knew where the Court was, and they protected it and each other in a way that astounded Olivier.  
Everyday there were whispers of gypsies being ‘quietly dispatched’ from the streets under Richelieu’s orders. They were to Richelieu the epitome of sin, and that was what Richelieu appeared to wish to stomp out of Paris.  
  
It had been a boy, seven years ago now, that had first sparked Olivier’s interest in the gypsies. At the time it had been hard to comprehend that someone a similar age to himself could have such a different life. The boy had been in scruffy brown shorts and a loose white shirt, dark of skin and hair with, Olivier remembered, a huge smile. Olivier had seen the boy four more times within those seven years since their first meeting. Every time a little bit older, a little more handsome, and a lot more skilled in street performance.  
  
The boy had been playing the tambourine the first time, with two older gypsies who were also playing instruments. He had caught nine-year-old Olivier’s eyes and the recognition had been there in an instant. Olivier had not waited around; he merely waved, winked and dropped a coin into the small sack on the floor in front of the performers.  
  
The second time, the boy, possibly around age thirteen at that time, had been calling people in to watch a puppet show. Thomas had eagerly dragged his brother and his parents toward the stall and Olivier had come face to face with the boy. The boy had grinned, before disappearing into the puppet stall. When the puppets had jiggled and danced around, causing Thomas to laugh loudly amongst the other gathered audience, Olivier had wondered which puppet the boy was controlling as he ruffled Thomas’ hair with fond affection.  
  
The third time it had been winter. Bitter cold. Olivier was thirteen, and hurrying alongside his father, when he had spotted a figure huddled in a bundle of ragged material. It had taken a moment or two of looking to see that it was the boy. Olivier had skidded to a halt, his father not noticing and carrying on down the street. Olivier had crouched before the boy, and the boy had looked up at him, breath clouding the air between them. Olivier had dropped a coin in the boy’s hat and pulled off his scarf. He wrapped it around the boy’s hands.  
  
“What’s your name?” He had asked the boy, as the boy opened his mouth in astonishment.  
  
“Porthos.” Came the reply. It was the first time the boy had truly spoken to him. The boy spoke in a cold rush, voice hoarse from the harsh wind.  
  
“Porthos.” Olivier had repeated with a nod. He had squeezed Porthos’ hands before getting up to follow his father.  
  
“Olivier.” Olivier had stopped in surprise at his own name being spoken. “Thank you.”  
  
Olivier had nodded at the boy – Porthos - with a smile and then rushed away. His father had scolded him for being careless enough to lose his scarf. Olivier bore it with a secret smile.  
  
The fourth time, Porthos had been dancing. Olivier was thirteen, which meant Porthos was a year or so older, and he had grown tall in the six months since Olivier had seen him last. He had been wearing loose brown pants and a V-necked white shirt, bangles on his wrists and a necklace about his throat. He was a great dancer. Olivier had stopped to watch, his brother beside him, and Porthos had caught Olivier’s eyes as he spun. Porthos had grinned brightly, and then carried on as though he had not been distracted. Olivier had decided not to distract him further and moved on.   
  
Porthos had sparked Olivier’s interest in the Court. He often stopped to watch street performers in and around Paris, much to his father’s annoyance if they were in a hurry, and much to his mother’s chagrin.  
  
“They will rob you blind, Olivier, if you are not careful.” She had warned him on many occasions.  
  
“But I like watching them.” He had argued.  
  
Thomas had caught his eye and smiled at him. Thomas loved watching them too, and knew of Olivier’s interest in the gypsies.  
  
“It’s just, where do you suppose they go?” Olivier had asked his brother on many occasions. "Where do you think the Court of Miracles is?" His younger brother had just shrugged.   
  
They often played games in their back garden, pretending to know the entrance to the Court of Miracles, evading capture, stealing and earning gold, and escaping Richelieu’s clutches every time.  
  
Olivier was fourteen now, and it had been seven years since he had first met Porthos, and it had been a year or so since their last encounter. Every time Olivier ventured into Paris with his family he kept an eye out for Porthos, but like all of the street performers, Porthos never seemed to be in the same place twice, and Olivier did not come to Paris all that often; living a few miles out of the city in his family’s big country house and keeping busy with his home-schooling. He only got to go to Paris if he managed to persuade his father to allow him to join him when his father was on business.  
  
It was September when Olivier was next invited to go into Paris with his father. Thomas, aged twelve, decided to stay behind to play with the dogs from his day off from their lessons.  
  
Olivier was even more pleased when his father gave him a coin or two, and told him he was free to wander around the building in which his father was meeting a friend, just ‘not too far’ and that he had to be ‘very careful’. Olivier readily agreed, having not ever wandered the streets of Paris alone before.  
  
It was by some great coincidence, just as Olivier rounded the corner into the next street and was wondering whether or not he would see Porthos, that he spotted the boy himself. Porthos looked older again from when Olivier had last seen him. His dark curls were shorter to his head and his warm, mischievous face was showing all the signs that he would grow into a very handsome man. Porthos was wearing purple pants this time, slung low on his hips with a gold chained belt, a loose white shirt revealing a sliver of a toned stomach and chest. There was a small gold ring in his ear. Porthos was performing some sort of card trick, to a small yet captivated audience. He clocked onto Olivier’s presence a moment or two after Olivier had noticed him. Offering him a sly grin, Porthos turned to the women standing closest to him.   
  
“Ladies, please look at these cards.” He fanned out a pack of cards in front of the women. “Each card has a different picture on it. Is this correct?”  
  
“Yes.” One woman said.  
  
“Thank you Miss. Now, there’s nothing on the other side, is there?” He turned the cards up so that they could see that the backs were blank.   
  
“Yes.” She confirmed.  
  
“Now, if I could have a volunteer.” Porthos’ eyes landed on Olivier immediately. “Sir, would you like to volunteer?”  
  
“Of course.” Olivier stepped forward with an interested smirk.  
  
“Now, pick out a card, make sure I don’t see the picture, show the audience and then slide it back into the pack. Ok?”  
  
Olivier did as he was told. The card had a rearing stallion on it; beautiful and intricately hand painted. He showed the crowd, then slid it back in amongst the other cards. “Ok.” He said.  
  
Porthos opened his eyes and stacked the cards altogether.   
  
“Now.” Porthos said, shuffling the cards. He swept one out. “Is this your card?”  
  
The picture was of a heart with a dagger through it. Olivier coughed. “Ugh, sorry. No.”  
  
Porthos’ eyes crinkled with amusement. “No matter,” He picked another. “Is this your card?”  
  
The picture was of a jester.  
  
“No.” Olivier confessed, looking apologising.  
  
The crowd began to mutter between themselves and a couple at the back began to shift.  
  
“Ah, ah, good people, before you think me useless…” Porthos clucked his tongue. “I have been tricking you, I am afraid.” He stepped towards Olivier. “It appears my volunteer has something in his pocket.”  
  
“I don’t…” Olivier started, before Porthos reached forward and plucked a card out from his pocket.  
  
Olivier stared in disbelief at Porthos. How had that card got into his pocket?  
  
Porthos smiled as the crowd began to chatter in excitement. “My last chance…” Porthos declared dramatically. “Before you all title me a fool.” He put a hand over his eyes and thrust the card out towards the onlookers. “Is this your card?”  
  
It was. “It is.” Olivier said in amazement as the crowd started cheering.  
  
Porthos dropped his hand and beamed at them all. “Thank you ladies and gentlemen.” He took a bow. “Now, I shall be but a moment before my next trick. Please stay and watch, or, if you enjoyed, a small amount of money would be more than welcome, to make sure I can come here again and entertain you all.”  
  
Porthos leant close to Olivier. “I will be done with this show in a few minutes, I will speak to you after?”  
  
Olivier nodded, and passed Porthos a coin. “I am truly amazed by what you just did.”  
  
Porthos’ smile split his face. “I am glad to hear it.”  
  
Olivier nodded and left Porthos to it, as much as he wanted to watch the next trick, he also wanted to get a look around. He would get a chance to see Porthos when Porthos had finished his show.  
  
He wandered a little further down the street, smiling to himself at the exclaims of wonder from the audience that had gathered around Porthos. As he turned into the next street he stopped dead, there were two soldiers harassing a musician further down the street, and another couple of soldiers were heading his way.  
  
Olivier doubled back when he realised the two soldiers were clapping irons on the musician. He had to warn Porthos.  
The crowd around Porthos was dispersing when Olivier reached him. “Thank you, thank you.” Porthos was saying with a huge grin.  
  
“Porthos.” Olivier muttered as he wove through the straggling crowd.  
  
“Olivier.” Porthos smiled.  
  
“There is no time Porthos.” Olivier hissed urgently. “There are soldiers coming this way.”  
  
Porthos’ face fell. “What?”  
  
“They are arresting a performer in the next street. You have to pack up and go.”  
  
“Right.” Porthos went to packing up with practiced skill which showed he had had to clear out in a rush before. “It’s been getting more and more often recently.” He said, shoving the last of his things into his bag and grasping his bag of coins.  
Raised voices approached them, and just before the soldiers could round the corner, Porthos clasped Olivier’s wrist and tugged them into the nearest alleyway.  
  
“I cannot stray too far from this street.” Olivier said urgently. “Or my father would ban me from coming back.”  
  
“Then I will let you go.” Porthos said with a small smile. “I owe you once again, Olivier.”  
  
“You do not owe me anything, though maybe one day we may be able to have a full conversation.”  
  
Porthos ducked his head. “Hopefully.”   
  
“It was good to see you again.” Olivier said. “Just make sure that you keep safe, I would hate not to see you next time I am in Paris.”  
  
“You know about the crackdown on my people?” Porthos realised. “You know that they are being more ruthless?”  
  
“I do.” Olivier said, he stuck out his hand. “So, keep out of their hands. Until next time?”  
  
Porthos reached out and shook his hand. “Next time, my friend.” He promised.  
  
Olivier watched Porthos rush down the alleyway and slip out of sight, just as the soldiers passed by the end of the alley, stunned at the realisation that Porthos considered him a friend. Olivier was not aware that he would not see the other boy – his friend - again for a long long time.

 

* * *

  
  
  
**20 May 1470**

 

To Judge Richelieu, Porthos and his kind were vermin. Over the years Richelieu’s iron fist grew tighter and tighter and he came down harder and harder on the gypsies. Porthos had lost countless friends to arrest, execution and outright murder, that no-one was brought to justice for. The Court of Miracles was still unfound. But it was becoming more and more of a common knowledge amongst the gypsy population in France that there was a safe haven in Paris, and every day more and more people came to Paris seeking safety against the condemnation and prejudice that was spreading country-wide under Richelieu’s watch.  
  
Porthos spent a lot of his time performing, running and hiding, performing, running and hiding, trying to live whilst making a living. Porthos did not personally like stealing when earning the money was a possible option, but with street performers being targeted more frequently the crimes were increasing, and Porthos himself had had to steal more frequently in order to just get by. He had to.   
  
With looking after his friends, his people, the closest thing he had to a home and family, he had not given much thought to the kind, wealthy boy he had befriended all those years ago. He had seen Olivier almost annually since their first meeting, but then he had not seen him for a while. He had never forgotten Olivier’s numerous acts of kindness; the money, the scarf, the warning of soldiers approaching. But he did not see him for a long time.  
  
Then one day, he thought he saw him at a distance, a handsome young man with another – possibly Thomas – laughing beside him. Entranced at the possibility, Porthos tried to get closer, but had to duck into a doorway as soldiers patrolled nearby.  
  
It was not until May 1470, a long six years after their last true encounter, that Porthos saw Olivier again for definite. The only issue was, Olivier did not see him. Porthos was twenty-one, sitting comfortably on a blanket and whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a flower. He had found a talent at whittling and it brought him a lot of trade. It was also easy to scoop his figures up in the blanket and make a break for it if soldiers came passing.   
  
Porthos glanced up, almost as though drawn like a magnet, when he heard a bright, sunny laugh. Not many people laughed so openly in these dark days. His eyes landed on Olivier. Olivier, who had a woman on his arm. A beautiful and striking woman dressed in blue and white, with blue flowers in her brunette hair. She was smiling up at Olivier and he was gazing adoringly back. Olivier was so entranced by his beautiful woman, that he passed Porthos by without even looking away from his companion.  
The happy couple had another companion, undoubtedly Thomas, ever trailing behind his big brother, who did glance at Porthos as he passed, and tilted his head in vague recognition when he spotted him, but he must have dismissed it, as he soon looked away again.   
Olivier had looked so happy, so stunning in his fine clothing and adoration, that Porthos felt a saddening twist in his stomach. Had Olivier really outgrown his fascination with Porthos and his kind? Had Olivier really outgrown him?  
  
It was, coincidentally, the last time Porthos would ever see Thomas. It was also the last time he would ever see Olivier, as he had once known him.

 

* * *

 

 

**16 February 1472**

 

Porthos was playing a tune on the pipes as Flea danced around before him, drawing the attentions of passers-by, but not enough for them to stop. Less and less people stopped these days, for fear of being seen to associate or sympathise with gypsies. 

And, as per usual, it wasn’t long before a low whistle from the young boy sitting on a nearby wall warned them of soldiers approaching.  
  
“Meet you at the base.” Porthos sighed.  
  
Flea nodded, sending him a brief smile, before gathering her skirts and running for it. Porthos bent to gather their coins and made his way down the street in the opposite direction. However, the clattering sound that abruptly followed his retreat made him stop and close his eyes exasperatedly.   
  
“Typical.” He grumbled, turning on his heel to see that his and Flea’s earnings had scattered through a tear in the bag. He glanced up to see soldiers walking toward him down the street.  
  
“Shit.” He clenched his teeth and began to gather as many of the metal pieces as he could. Money was harder to earn these days, and they needed every penny to get enough to eat. He wouldn’t let Flea lose her earned share for his foolishness, he refused.  
  
A hand stepped on his, slowing his process.  
  
“What is this, then?” A voice said above him.  
  
“What does it look like?” Porthos replied airily. “I dropped some of my money.” He gathered the last couple of coins and shoved them in his pocket.  
  
“ _Your_  money? Unlikely! You been stealing, boy?”  
  
Boy? He was twenty-three now! A man! “I have earned every coin, Sir, I have some pride.” He stated, standing up straight to look the soldier in the eye. “Now let me continue on my way.”  
  
“You think we don’t know who you are? Evading us for years…” The soldier started.  
  
“Now, now, Phillipe.” A voice admonished beside them. “We didn’t actually catch him physically performing or stealing now did we?”  
  
Porthos glanced at the second soldier, before doing a double-take and looking back. Surely it wasn’t – Olivier? The man stood in the silver armour of Richelieu’s soldiers. But it looked like Olivier. It was his eyes, that same face, older now and bearded, but otherwise…How had Olivier become a soldier? And there was something wrong. For as similar as Olivier’s face seemed, it was set in an expression Porthos had never seen on it before. Gone was the happy smile, the curious eyes and the mischievous wink. This man was frowning. His eyes looked haunted. He looked severe and unhappy. What had happened in only two years to make Olivier look this way, and not as he did when with his lady on his arm and his brother at his heels?  
  
Olivier made no move, made no reaction to suggest he had ever seen Porthos in his life. Surely he still remembered who Porthos was? Porthos didn’t look much different – taller, much more muscular and bearded, yes, but still recognisable as Porthos.  
  
“No.” The other soldier was biting out.  
  
“Then I am afraid there is nothing we can do.” Olivier reminded him lightly.  
  
“Fine.” The other soldier bit out. “But be warned, gypsy, street performing is banned.”  
  
“Not illegal.” Porthos pointed out.  
  
“Watch your tongue.” Olivier snapped.  
  
Porthos sent Olivier a glare, and still there was no recognition on Olivier’s face.  
  
“It is banned.” The other soldier said. “Next time you may not be so lucky.” He then turned away and stalked off down the street.  
  
Olivier did not move to follow. Instead, he stooped down and picked up a stray coin that Porthos had missed, before turning right into Porthos’ face. He grabbed Porthos’ wrist, pushing Porthos’ fingers open and pressing the coin into Porthos’ palm.  
  
“When you promised me you would stay out of trouble, I thought you might keep it.” Olivier said, looking up at Porthos from under the brim of his hat, finally indicating that he did remember Porthos after all.  
  
“It’s getting harder.” Porthos said, watching Olivier closely. “Olivier…”  
  
Olivier flinched back as though Porthos had hit him. “It’s Athos now.” Olivier said shortly, “And I recommend that next time you collect money, use something that doesn’t have a hole in it.”  
  
Then he turned and was gone, leaving Porthos gaping and speechless behind him.  
  
*  
  
It was suicidal, but Porthos followed Olivier – Athos, now, he’d been told – home. It had been easy to dart through the streets behind Athos and Phillipe, until Athos was off duty. And, to Porthos’ surprise, Athos then walked to a house within Paris. Porthos had always guessed that Athos had lived out of the city in his youth, but something must have changed for Athos to be here now; probably when Athos became...well, Athos.  
  
Athos was just opening the door when Porthos appeared behind him. “So,” Porthos said. “..‘Athos’?”  
  
“Like it?” Athos asked, not turning around.  
  
Porthos had a million questions to ask, but from the tone in Athos’ voice, he could tell the other man was not in the mood to answer any of them.  
  
“It’s…different.” Porthos said.  
  
“Not so dissimilar to ‘Porthos’.” Athos commented.  
  
“No, but I was given my name as a street urchin.” Porthos said.  
  
There was a huff of a laugh and then Athos pushed the door open. “You had best come in before someone realises I am allowing the type of man I am supposed to be arresting into my house.”  
  
“Speaking of which…” Porthos said the moment the door closed behind him. “A soldier?! Olivier…Athos…really?! After everything you did for me?”  
  
“It is not…ideal.” Athos shrugged, leading the way into a sparse dining room.   
  
“Ideal?! Athos! You are arresting people like me! Sentencing people like me to  _death_  for just being  _who we are_!”   
  
“I’m not.” Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, wandering towards the nearest cupboard and opening it, revealing lines of wine bottles inside.  
  
Porthos raised an eyebrow. “So you’re a drinker now then, as well?”  
  
Athos worked the bottle open, before taking a swig. “How do you know I wasn’t one before?”  
  
“Because you were…what? Fourteen?”  
  
“Point.” Athos shook a finger at him before pulling out a chair and sitting in it, motioning for Porthos to do the same.   
  
“Though I saw you again, after that.” Porthos said.   
  
Athos looked surprised. “You did?”  
  
“About two years ago.” Porthos said, watching as Athos’ face fell. “You didn’t notice me, you were with company.” Porthos paused. “You looked happy.”  
  
Athos’ face screwed up and he took a big gulp of wine. “Hmm.”  
  
“What happened?” Porthos asked. “How did Olivier become,” He motioned at Athos. “Athos?”  
  
“You know, this is the longest conversation we have ever had.” Athos pointed out. “You didn’t know all that much about me before.”  
  
“I knew enough.” Porthos argued. “The Olivier I knew  _wanted_  to have a full conversation with me. I know Olivier wouldn’t become a soldier, helping to wipe out my people.”  
  
“Well, Athos is.” Athos said, and took a swig of wine, before catching Porthos’ devastation and rolling his eyes. “Honestly Porthos, do you take me for an idiot? I would never arrest a person for being who they are. I needed a change, and this was the only way I could see to help people, like I helped you today. I thought I could be a voice of reason amidst the authorities. My Captain, Treville, he is the only other soldier I have met who is sympathetic to your cause, but Richelieu overrides him every time. I thought that being out on the streets would help people.”  
  
Porthos could not help but breathe a sigh of relief. So Athos’ values hadn’t changed as much as he’d feared. Now that he knew for certain that Athos posed no more of a threat than Olivier had, Porthos let curiosity take hold. “Why did you need the change?” He asked Athos.  
  
“Ah, ah.” Athos said. “You have made me talk far more than I normally ever do. No more from me tonight.”  
  
“I’ll just have to get a bit more information out of you every time we meet then.”   
  
“Well in that case I hope we continue meeting on our usual annual basis.”  
  
Porthos snorted, “Funny. I didn’t know you had such a dry humour.”  
  
“It has grown with time.”  
  
“As has your beard.”  
  
Athos chuckled into his bottle. “As has yours.”  
  
Porthos grinned, pleased to have finally made Athos show a bit of that old smile, “So, you are living in Paris now?”  
  
“Clearly.”  
  
“So we may, actually, see each other on more than an annual basis?”  
  
“For your sake, Porthos, with the job I have now, I really hope we don’t.”

 

* * *

  
  
  
**5 June 1472**

  
  
“What did I tell you?” Athos sighed in frustration as Porthos clambered in through his window.  
  
“That I wasn’t allowed to come here.”  
  
“And how many times have you been here?”  
  
Athos watched the taller man stop and think about it, one foot still up on the window ledge. “This makes five.”  
  
“Hmm.” Athos said in fond exasperation, as in all honesty, he wasn’t all that bothered. He liked Porthos’ company; to have a friend left in the world was a comforting thing. And Porthos’ visits at least kept Athos reassured that Porthos was unharmed and uncaught. “Wine?”  
  
“Please.” Porthos smiled at him, slumping down in a seat. “There is an honest reason for me being here this time, though. I was being chased. I lost them, but I didn’t think I’d make it back to the Court without running into someone. Richelieu’s going mad, I swear, there are more patrols than ever before.”  
  
Athos passed him a cup of wine. “This Court of yours, it still amazes me.”  
  
“I know.” Porthos said, and Porthos looked amused. This had been the third time Athos had brought it up in conversation, and Porthos must have known it.   
  
“Sorry.” Athos apologised. “If I go on about it much more, you will think I am prying for a reason.”  
  
“No I don’t.” Porthos said. “I just see the curiosity of a seven-year-old boy.”  
  
Athos sent him a small smile, rare on his face these days.  
Porthos smiled back, a warm look on his face, before his expression changed to determination. “Tell you what, if you ever need to find me,” Porthos pulled a piece of string at his neck, revealing a woven pendant that he had been keeping close to his chest. He ducked his head as he pulled it off and pressed it into Athos’ hands. “A gift, in exchange for all that you have given me over the years; money, warmth, shelter, food and drink…”   
  
Athos held it up and looked at it. The woven piece was confusing. Lots of coloured lines with the odd symbol here and there. “What is it?”  
  
Porthos laughed. “ _That_  is the answer to your years of wondering.” His grin was as bright as it always was, and Athos wished he could return it with the same force. “This is the map to the Court of Miracles.”  
  
“What?!” Athos gasped delightedly, turning it over in his fingers in excitement as he studied it with heightened interest. “How do I read it?”  
  
Porthos’ hands closed over his own. “When you wear this woven band, you hold the city in your hand. Remember that when you need to find it, but only come to the Court if you really really need me. Ok?”  
  
“Thank you, my friend.” Athos said earnestly. “I cannot believe you are trusting me with this.”  
  
“Believe. Because of course I trust you.” Porthos said, as though Athos was mad to suggest otherwise. “You are one of my oldest friends.”  
  
Athos thought back on his life. The joy of having Anne as a wife, such a young and loving couple they had been for a short while, before her betrayal. He thought of his affection for Thomas, before his little brother became suspicious and died as a result. Porthos had asked after Thomas on his second visit. Athos’ silence had been answer enough. Porthos had not asked about Anne. For that Athos was glad. The deaths of his parents, Anne and Thomas had left him in ruins, that is why he was where he was now, soldiering and drinking his days away, trying to do a little bit of good in the world even as he destroyed himself. Porthos though, Porthos was the only constant in Athos’ life, and that was something he was beginning to appreciate more and more.   
  
“And you are mine.” Athos found himself choking out, turning his palms over to grasp Porthos’ hands, where they still lay over his own.  
  
Porthos smiled, and Athos was once again struck by how handsome his friend was. “How are things at the Court?” Athos asked softly.  
  
Porthos’ eyes met his again, brown and soft. “We lost another two yesterday. Arrested. We assume execution in a day or two.”  
  
“And there’s nothing you can do?” Athos squeezed Porthos’ hands. “Nothing I can do?”  
  
Porthos shook his head angrily. “Richelieu is a madman.” He bit out. Athos could see an anger in Porthos when he talked about Richelieu that was raw and brutal and so unlike Porthos, but completely justified in its fire. “He wants to purge the world of vice and sin, but he doesn’t realise that the most corrupt thing in this city is him.”  
  
Athos also knew by now that the only way to calm Porthos down from a rant was to distract him, so he reached out to fondly flick at Porthos’ earring. “When did you get so wise?”  
  
Porthos’ dark eyes cleared a little and, as Athos predicted, the other man grinned at him, “I have always been wise. Just because I’m an uneducated orphan doesn’t make me stupid.” He winked. But just as Athos knew when to change a topic, Porthos knew the tactic he was playing. “Any more wine?”  
  
“Like I said,” Athos reached for the bottle again. “A wise man.”


	2. Chapter 2

**28 December 1472**

  
  
The day that Athos finally found the Court of Miracles was a cold night in December. Snow had fallen and settled on the ground and the darkness was drawn in. Athos had been a soldier for just over a year, but was growing increasingly frustrated. For every gypsy he helped to save, another one was arrested or killed elsewhere. He was tired of making limited difference.  
  
Treville understood Athos’ frustrations. Treville was the only man as committed as Athos to making a difference, and yet Richelieu’s claws were still digging deeper and deeper into how the city was run.  
  
Athos kicked a clump of snow.  
  
There had been a meeting a couple of days ago with Richelieu and some of the other soldiers, which Treville and Athos had not been asked to attend. Richelieu was clearly suspicious of their loyalty. Athos snorted with laughter; if only Richelieu knew that he had been harbouring a gypsy in his home almost every week for months. A gypsy who happened to be Athos’ best friend. A gypsy who had given Athos the map to the Court of Miracles.  
  
Richelieu was becoming more fixated on finding the Court, and despite all his attempts he had still been unsuccessful. If he knew Athos had that power… Athos frowned and clasped the woven pendant that lay on his chest next to a locket filled with forget-me-nots. Athos had not even told Treville about Porthos, or Porthos’ gift to him. The less Treville knew about it all, the better. Athos was good at keeping secrets. In fact, he was the best.  
  
Athos was pleased to have a night off from patrolling. His usual patrol partner had been one of the ones called to Richelieu’s meeting, and had since been out of Paris for nearly two days on some kind of mission.   
  
Athos was in a foul mood, so had taken a walk to calm his mind. His walk had taken him, as it often did, toward Notre Dame Cathedral.   
  
Notre Dame de Paris was architecturally magnificent, with its strange gargoyles and its long history. Each stone held a secret; each bell rang with such power. Athos had been inside a couple of times, but, not considered to be overly religious, had felt out of place amongst the prayers, candles and incense. It was, therefore, the aesthetic of the building that attracted Athos, rather than its purpose. He considered the imposing exterior to be one of the most beautiful sights in all of Paris.  
  
Tonight, however, there was something that was tarnishing its beauty.   
  
As Athos approached the grand stairs to the main entrance, he noticed something on the stone steps. There was somebody lying in the snow.  
  
“What the…” Athos muttered, approaching the person. “Are you alright?” He called to them.  
  
To his surprise, the person moved. They hauled themselves up another step before collapsing back down into the snow again.  
Athos hurried to the figure, realising with a growing sickness that the person – who he could now make out to be a man – was leaving a trail of blood up the snowy steps.  
  
“Sir, are you…” Athos stopped. The man was not well clothed for the cold weather, and when Athos turned him over, Athos could not stop his mouth from dropping open.  
  
The young man’s handsome face was bloodied and he had a bandage wrapped roughly around his temple. One of his hands, slick with blood, was clutching at his side, presumably covering a wound.  
  
“What happened to you?” Athos ground out, ripping material from his own shirt and scrunching it up, before batting the man’s bloody hand away and pressing the wad of cloth over the wound.  
  
“Sanctuary.” The young man was muttering, over and over like a mantra. “I claim sanctuary.” His eyes cracked open, though they looked clouded and distant. “Sanctuary.”  
  
“You have sanctuary.” Athos tried to calm him. “You have it.”  
  
“Not here.” The man moaned, pain lacing each word. “Not for me.”  
  
At that statement, Athos took in the appearance of the man in the moon and lantern-light. He saw tanned skin, brunette curls, the loose clothing the man wore, the rings on his fingers with unusual symbols in the centres.  
  
He then understood what the man meant. “Are you a traveller?” He asked urgently. “A gypsy?”  
  
“Don’t turn me in…” The man whined through gritted teeth. “I claim sanctuary; I just need to get to…” The man suddenly rolled over and attempted to crawl further up the stone steps.  
  
“Stop. Stop!” Athos ordered. The exertion would probably kill the man before he could reach Notre Dame's doors. “Let me help you.” He eased the man onto his back again. “Are you from Paris?”  
  
The man shook his head, biting his lip in his pain and his hand shot down to push against Athos’ where it held the wad of material to his wound. His snow-covered hair was fanned around his head like a bizarre halo.   
  
“Do you know where the Court of Miracles is?” Athos asked. If the man wasn’t from Paris and did not know of the Court’s location, Notre Dame must have been the only place he thought he could find safety.   
  
A string of Spanish passed the young man’s lips, which, from what Athos picked up from his limited grasp of Spanish, was “I couldn’t find it.”  
  
Athos looked around desperately. There was no-one around. If he took the man into the Cathedral to claim sanctuary he would find limited help for his wound at this time of night. If he took him anywhere else he would be arrested or left to die as an outside gypsy trying to enter the city without permission. The Court and Porthos were his best hope.  
  
Athos took a better look at the wound, to see whether the young man could make it. The wound was already roughly stitched, he was surprised to find, but had since torn slightly.  
  
“You stitched this?” Athos asked in surprise.  
  
“I’m normally better at it.” The young man wheezed a laugh, looking up at him with hazy eyes.  
  
Athos had no idea what kind of man would try and stitch himself up after receiving a wound like that, but he figured that man would have to be determined to live, and Athos was going to make sure that he did. Athos had the map after all, and he believed that, after studying it carefully, he had finally figured it out.  
  
“What is your name?” He asked the man.  
  
“Aramis.” came the slurred reply.  
  
“Ok, Aramis.” Athos grimaced as Aramis shuddered out another wheezy breath. “I’m going to take you to the Court. You will be safe there. I promise.”  
  
*  
  
Aramis was unconscious when Athos opened the secret entrance to the Court of Miracles, which, he was amused to find, was in a tomb in the centre of a graveyard. Of course the Court would be down among the Catacombs. Of course it would. After all that wondering for so many years, Athos didn’t know whether to be slightly underwhelmed by the blatant obviousness or completely amazed by this secret place that had remained hidden for so long.   
  
Athos tugged Aramis’ limp arm further around his shoulders and held more tightly onto his waist. “Not much further.” He whispered. “Just a bit further.”  
  
After the entrance was closed behind him and they had made it down the stairs, Athos got the distinct feeling that they were being watched. Almost immediately after that thought, wooden torches blared to life and several figures jumped out from the shadows, from among the skulls and walls of the catacombs. They held swords in their hands and those swords were pointed directly at Athos.  
  
Athos would have put his hands up in a peaceful gesture, had he not being holding Aramis up for all he was worth.  
  
“I’m a friend!” He shouted. “A friend. This man is one of you. He is injured and he needs your help.”  
  
“Never seen him before.” One of the men said gruffly. “And if he is ‘one of us’, what does that make you?”  
  
“I…” Athos began, unsure as to how he should proceed without revealing that he was, in fact, a soldier.  
  
“Athos?” A voice came from the darkness, and Athos almost slumped with relief to see Porthos pushing through the others, a sword in his own hand. “Athos, what are you doing here?”  
  
Athos jerked his head towards the one lolling near his shoulder. “I found him on the steps of Notre Dame. He’s injured and one of you, I didn’t know where else to take him.”  
  
“Lower your weapons.” Porthos snapped immediately, and Athos was surprised to watch all the men obey Porthos immediately. Porthos walked straight up to Athos and pushed his forehead to Athos’ own. “You weren’t followed?”  
  
“Unfollowed.” Athos promised. “I kept checking. I would not bring that danger upon you.”  
  
“I know.” Porthos smiled quickly, before taking in Athos’ unconscious companion. “Who is he?”  
  
“His name’s Aramis. He is a gypsy, just not from Paris. I don’t know anything else.”  
  
“I’ll take him.” Porthos offered, holding out his arms for Athos to manoeuvre the unconscious Aramis into Porthos' arms. Porthos lifted Aramis like he would a damsel, with limited effort. Aramis’ hand fell limply from his side and dangled in the air. “Come on Athos.” Porthos sent him a warm, fond smile. “Time to finally see your mysterious Cour des Miracles.”  
  
Athos tried to remain stoic as the strange entourage of armed men followed he and Porthos through the tunnels toward the Court of Miracles, but he could not help glancing about in wonder. It was incredible how the gypsies had made a home down here among the ancient foundations and bones of Paris. A safe haven from death among the long dead. Smart, yet completely ironic. There were so many questions he had to ask Porthos, but he held his tongue, unwilling to outstay his welcome in the eyes of the men following him suspiciously.  
  
Finally, they reached a large open stone space, bigger than Athos could have ever have imagined to lie beneath the city. It was like a whole other town down below the ground, with stalls and alcoves and tents, with a big stage at the front, with, Athos was displeased to see, their own gallows. There were stores of food, water and materials.  
  
“This is incredible.” Athos could not help admitting to Porthos. Porthos gave him a lopsided smile, before hurrying into the mass of stalls and tents.  
  
“We’ll put him in my tent.” Porthos said.  
  
“You can help him?”  
  
“I think so. Pierre,” Porthos barked at a nearby man. “Fetch Flea and Elise for me.”  
  
Porthos laid Aramis down carefully on several layers of blankets. Athos looked around him, taking in the tent where Porthos slept, where Porthos lived. It was simplistic. The tent was patched from bright materials, and the cushions and blankets within held that same technicolor clash, there was a small wooden chest in the corner, but otherwise that was it. Athos assumed that when one lived among thieves (and he assumed Porthos was not a stranger from having to steal either), you would learn to keep your most valuable possessions on your person.  
  
Aramis was ghostly pale, but still breathing. Porthos inspected the wound with the same look of awed confusion that Athos had had.   
  
“Did he try and stitch this himself?”  
  
“I gathered as much.”  
  
“Tenacious.” Porthos commented. He tilted his head to look at the young man’s face, before spotting something around Aramis’ neck. He took Aramis’ necklace in hand, showing Athos the crucifix around Aramis’ neck. “Religious.”   
  
“He was claiming sanctuary.” Athos told him.  
  
“It’s worked for me before.” Porthos nodded thoughtfully, “Though you couldn’t call me religious.”  
  
“You’ve claimed sanctuary?” Athos was surprised.  
  
“A story for another time.” Porthos said, focusing on the wound in Aramis’ side. “We’ll have to cut these, clean the wound and stitch it again, I think, to best avoid any infection.” He pulled a knife from his belt.  
  
The knife had only cut and removed one of the threads, when Aramis heaved a huge intake of breath and his eyes snapped open, lurching upwards and grasping onto Porthos’ wrist.  
  
“Where am I?” Aramis gasped with wide, delirious eyes.  
  
Athos watched, surprised that Aramis had even regained consciousness, as Porthos did a double-take, staring into Aramis’ eyes. “You’re in the Court of Miracles.”  
  
“Cour des Miracles…” Aramis stared around unseeingly, before his eyes passed over and then shot back to Athos. “You brought me…”  
  
“Aramis.” Athos spoke softly, “What happened to you? Do you remember?”  
  
Aramis’ brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment, before his face flooded with a new panic. “Savoy.” Aramis whispered in a rush. “We were sleeping.” His eyes went distant again, haunted. “They killed everyone.”  
  
“Everyone? Who killed everyone?” Porthos asked urgently, trying to meet Aramis’ eyes.   
  
Aramis’ head turned from one side to the other, as though searching for people who weren’t there. Porthos gently took hold of the tops of Aramis’ arms and Aramis flinched, before he finally focused on Porthos, “You are saving me?”  
  
“I am.” Porthos promised. “You can go back to sleep now, if you want. We’ll take care of you.”  
  
Aramis’ lips tilted into a wavering smile that looked half-drunk yet somehow still dashing on his blood stained face. “Such gentlemen.” And then his eyes rolled back into his head as he gave up consciousness again.  
  
Porthos lowered Aramis back to the bedding, seemingly transfixed by the newcomer. “What do you think he meant?” Porthos asked. “That ‘they killed everyone’?”  
  
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good.”  
  
Porthos glanced up at Athos with a grim expression on his face, before his concentration moved to something over Athos’ shoulder. “Flea, took you long enough!”  
  
“Sorry Porthos.” The woman Athos supposed was Flea entered the tent with another woman. “We got held up. Word on the street is that there was some kind of massacre just outside of Paris tonight. A troupe of about twenty people travelling from Savoy. No survivors.”  
  
Porthos and Athos found themselves staring down once again at their wounded stranger. “Actually,” Porthos said, “There might be one.”

 

*  
  
Porthos let Flea and Elise take over the care of Aramis, taking Athos’ arm and drawing him out of the tent.  
  
“Richelieu’s work.” That much was painfully obvious.  
  
“Almost definitely.” Athos sighed, “He sent a few of his most trusted out of town, which is why I wasn’t on duty tonight; my partner was out of town. I did not know to what purpose they were sent, but I would put money on this being their work.”  
  
“Hang on.”   
  
Porthos closed his eyes, hating Charon’s choice of timing. He turned around and found Charon, the right-hand man to the ‘King’ of the Court and one of his oldest friends standing behind them, flanked by the men who had taken a disliking to Athos at the entrance to the Court.  “The others said we had a stranger in the Court, Porthos, but him being ‘off duty’? Tell me he isn’t a soldier.”  
  
“Charon…” Porthos started warningly. “Athos is a friend.”  
  
“He’s a soldier!” Charon snapped loudly, clicking his fingers.   
  
The others seized Athos immediately. The last thing Porthos needed was for Charon to be overheard. Athos would not be leaving the Court alive if word got out that he was a soldier. And if the ‘King of the Court’ found out…  
  
“Lower your voice and let him go.” Porthos demanded.  
  
Charon may have been the second highest in command down here, but Porthos wasn’t far from a top-spot himself. He was respected and Charon considered him a loyal confidant.  
  
“I won’t let him go,” Charon said, though his voice was decidedly quieter. “I have half a mind to announce it to the entire Court and watch them lynch him. How the hell did he get here?”  
  
“Because I gave him a map.” Porthos countered, drawing up to his full height and levelling Charon with a hard stare.  
  
“What?!” Charon asked.  
  
“He’s had the map for about half a year.” Porthos said, desperately trying to make Charon understand. “I gave it to him because I trust him more than anyone. Has he come in with an army at his back? No! He only came to us now because he was trying to help one of us! The only survivor of the massacre that's just happened!”  
  
Charon looked taken aback. “Someone survived that?”  
  
“He’s in there.” Porthos nodded back toward his tent where the mysterious, handsome younger man laid unconscious and being sewn back together.  
  
Charon did not let the distraction linger. “Regardless of whether he saved one of us or not, how can you trust him?! He could turn us over in a heartbeat!”  
  
“He’s been letting me hide out in his house for the last year.”  
  
Porthos watched Charon pause, staring at him in disbelief. Charon had often asked Porthos where Porthos’ new hiding place was, and where Porthos went to when he disappeared for hours on end, but Porthos had never told him.  
  
“That’s where you’ve been hiding?”  
  
“Yes.” Porthos growled. “He is one of my most trustworthy and oldest friends. I’ve known him since I was eight.”  
  
Flea and Charon were his best friends, yes, among many others in the Court, but he did not know how greatly he could trust them. He did live among thieves and tricksters after all. Athos was constant and loyal in his friendship.  
  
“This is your noble-boy?” Charon recalled, his anger changing into something more akin to curiosity as he eyed Athos up and down.  
  
Porthos had told Charon and Flea about the generous child that had helped him on several occasions over the years. They had theorised about who the young man was, and why he was so interested in the gypsies, who were so condemned by most others.  
  
“Yes.” Porthos said, relieved when Charon now looked at him with that same childish wonderment for a moment or two.  
  
“I thought, for a while, that he was too good to be true.” Charon commented. “Yet here he is.”  
  
Porthos knew Athos was watching  _him_  now, probably intrigued as to what Charon had been told. Sometimes, Porthos wondered why he liked to keep such inquisitive company.   
  
“Here he is.” Porthos agreed. “And you have not been particularly welcoming, Charon. Now that you know what you do; that he is of absolutely no threat, are you going to see sense and let him go?”  
  
Charon levelled Porthos with a hard, considering stare before nodding shortly. “Release him.” He ordered of the men, and Athos was immediately let go. “But on your head be it, Porthos, if he does turncoat.”  
  
“You have my word that I am a man that will take my secrets to the grave.” Athos said, with a little too much sincerity for Porthos’ liking; there were secrets he still hoped Athos would one day reveal to him. “I would die before I betrayed the Court.”  
  
The corner of Charon’s lips quirked and he nodded again in satisfaction. “I will take your word, Athos, is it?”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Then Athos, Porthos,” Charon paused, looking between them for a final time before clearly coming to a final decision of letting Porthos win this round, as Porthos often did. “Tell me about this survivor of the Savoy massacre.”

* * *

 

 

**25 May 1473**

  
  
Athos did not go back to the Court of Miracles after the day he saved Aramis. He knew that whilst he remained a soldier he would never really be welcome there. Though that did not stop Porthos from coming back to visit him. And now, he did not come alone.  
  
Aramis had taken over a month to recover physically from the ‘Massacre of Savoy’, as it was now known by the people of France. It was an event that had not been kept quiet. Aramis had recounted the tale to them when he had been in a strong enough frame of mind to do so; Aramis had been part of a troupe that had been travelling from Savoy to Paris. They had been attacked as they slept just outside of Paris. Aramis was the only survivor from the group of twenty, the loss of his best friend Marsac hitting him the hardest. Aramis had fought back, killing two of the attackers, but was injured in the process. Assumedly believing their job to done and the victims all dead, the attackers had left, and Aramis had managed to roughly sew himself up and bandage his head before making a break into Paris under the cover of darkness.   
  
There had been no intended survivors of the massacre, which was most likely how Aramis had managed to slip past the boundaries unnoticed. It had been the most blatant and cruel attack on the gypsy people yet. Everyone was talking about it, but whether anyone was actually doing anything about it was a different matter. Athos was trying. Treville was trying. They had made enquiries into the Massacre, but as expected, their fellow soldiers claimed to know nothing about it, claiming it to be the work of bandits. They both knew better.  
  
The shock of the attack and the loss of his friends had made Aramis’ mental recovery much tougher than his physical recovery, though Porthos had informed Athos that Aramis was making vast improvements under Porthos’ watch and care, and now, five months later, despite the odd episode or headache, he was back to what Athos and Porthos assumed to be ‘the old Aramis’.  
  
The real Aramis, they had discovered, was a force unto himself. His handsome looks came paired with a chivalrous attitude, passionate spirit and an unmatched charm. He was a hit with the ladies; ladies in the Court of Miracles, ladies of the court of Paris, towns-ladies, married ladies, single ladies, barmaids and ladies maids. He charmed them all with a clever tongue and a dashing smile. He bedded a few of them as well, and a couple of men besides, as far as Porthos had informed Athos. But Aramis was, of course, far more than that. He was kind and had a humour that complimented Porthos’ blunt and raucous wit and Athos’ dry wit and sarcasm. Aramis was a healer and just as he had informed Athos whilst half out of his mind on the steps of the Notre Dame, he was very talented with a needle. He was an asset to the Court, which saw more and more people turn up in need of help. Aramis was also religious. He prayed, and went to church when it was possible. He always wore his crucifix around his neck, and he clutched it out of habit.  
  
Aramis was also very gifted at entertaining. According to Porthos, he could dance, sing and play a variety of instruments, which Athos was yet to see. But apparently Aramis truly specialised in something quite different.  
  
“Contrary to what you may think after my issues about Savoy,” He had informed them. “I am actually a thrill-seeker. As a part of the troupe, I often did the ‘risk-taking’ tricks; fire-breathing, fire eating, sword swallowing…” At the last he had winked at Athos and made Athos break eye contact and stare into his wine. It was undeniable that Aramis was an appealing man and it was also obvious that he wasn’t just attractive to ladies. Aramis had Porthos wrapped around his little finger, though he never abused that power, and Athos often let him get away with being cheeky. Though no matter how far Aramis had entranced them, he was also aware of Athos and Porthos’ history. He had claimed it a ‘classic romance story’ and was enthralled by their friendship, which had made Athos realise even more how much he appreciated Porthos in his life. Athos could admit to himself that he had been romantically interested in Porthos for some time, though he had never acted on it; too afraid after Anne to ever consider falling in love again.  
  
Porthos seemed as fond of him as ever regardless, and Aramis equally had in such a short space of time fitted quite comfortably into their friendship.  
  
“It is suspicious how he has come to fit so well into our lives.” Athos had commented to Porthos on one occasion.   
  
Aramis had smiled, “Well do not fear, I have used no spell, I promise. You both must just enjoy my company.”  
  
Because that, coincidentally, was another talent of Aramis’; “I wanted to be a priest, for a while when I was a child.” He had told them. Because Aramis was a lot freer with his secrets with Athos and Porthos. Far more open than Athos and Porthos had so far been for him. “But that became something of a problem when my grandmother started to teach me the art of black magic.”  
  
“You are having us on.” Athos had scoffed.  
  
Porthos hadn’t looked so disbelieving. “Witchcraft?”  
  
“To an extent.” Aramis had shrugged. “I can do the usual; powders and whatnot, mostly illusion, of course. But there is some reality there too, though I suppose my fire-breathing and risk-taking performances could be classed in a similar category, being slightly different to mild entertainment.”  
  
“I hadn’t even known that sort of thing really existed.” Athos had said honestly.  
  
Aramis had looked slightly apprehensive then. “Now, such practice can be considered a punishable crime outside of my community.” He had glanced at Porthos. “Are there such performers at the Court?”  
  
“There are.” Porthos had reassured him, which had surprised Athos, he had never seen a street performance as to what Aramis had been describing. “That kind of thing is kept until big events like the Feast of Fools however,” Porthos had explained, “It is becoming less and less of a good idea to perform it outside of those events, if you value your head. Though, to be quite honest, just living appears to be a punishable crime for us these days.”  
  
The mood had then darkened slightly, before Athos had said, “So Aramis, you are a religious man who practices dark magic. Those two must slot hand in hand together so nicely.”  
  
Aramis had rolled his eyes. “I’m a saint, I’m a sinner.” He had flopped on his chair dramatically. “What can I say? I’m a complex man.”  
  
Porthos and Aramis visited Athos frequently; several times a week in the last couple of months. It was risky, but they had so far been undiscovered, and that had made them more confident. Plus, Athos could never deny himself of their company. Which is how finding the two of them letting themselves into his house via the back window on the 25th May not surprising in the slightest.  
  
“Hello. Come right in.” Athos deadpanned. “What was it this time, a patrol?”   
  
“No.” Aramis said airily, “We just wanted the pleasure of your company.”  
  
“Was that sarcasm?” Athos asked Porthos as his friend pulled him into a quick embrace.   
  
“No, he genuinely means it.”  
  
“Honestly, my dear Athos, I daren’t even attempt to begin a battle of sarcasm against the best.” Aramis winked, taking his turn to hug Athos when Porthos let go. “And don’t pretend you are not pleased to see us.”  
  
Aramis then took Athos’ hand and started to pull him towards what passed as a drawing room. Aramis had pointed out to Athos on many occasions that there was no point in having a house if it wasn’t properly lived in. This meant that all the rooms of Athos’ house were now used and lit whenever Aramis and Porthos came to visit. Athos could have hardly denied either of them this piece of homeliness, with Porthos never actually having had a proper house, and that part of Aramis’ past still being a mystery. Despite this, Porthos had still apologised for Aramis’ interfering, knowing Athos’ need for some seclusion, but actually, the house felt a great deal warmer with lit, lived-in rooms and good company.   
Now that Aramis had visited plenty of times, it was routine that Porthos went about lighting the fire, whilst Aramis lit the room, and Athos…  
  
“You wouldn’t happen to have any wine in the house, would you Athos?” Aramis sent him a dazzling smile.  
  
“Ha. Ha.” Athos said flatly, heading for the wine cupboard that was never short in supply.  
  
When he returned, the fire was glowing and Porthos was sitting on one of the cushioned seats whilst Aramis investigated the room. Athos sat opposite Porthos, pouring a cup of wine and passing it to him.  
  
“How are you?” Porthos asked him.  
  
“As well as I ever am.” Athos responded. “I despise my job.” The burden was growing heavier on him with every passing day; the need to save people, with the disappointment when he could not. He had had to attend an execution in the previous week, and that night he had not slept a wink. Porthos and Aramis had visited the next day and sat with him silently, each holding one of his hands.  
  
“You helped Elisabeth yesterday.”  
  
“I did, but every time I help someone…” Athos trailed off, the situation was just as hopeless as ever. And as a result, he got drunk more often than he used to, which was saying something. He knew it concerned Porthos and Aramis, despite Aramis' lightheartedness about Athos and his wine.  
  
“I know.” Porthos said, his voice quiet and sad, “I know.” Porthos leant forward and patted Athos’ clenched hand. Athos uncurled his fingers slightly and sent Porthos a small smile.  
  
“A-ha!” They were interrupted by a cry of triumph as Aramis appeared from a cupboard, brandishing Athos’ lute. “Look at this Porthos!” He hurried over and slumped into the seat beside Porthos and looked to Athos, “I did not know you could play, my friend.”   
  
Athos found Porthos staring at him in surprise. “I did not know either.” Porthos admitted.  
  
“I had lessons as a boy.” Athos revealed with a smirk, reaching out for the lute which was eagerly handed to him.  
  
“Play for us Athos!” Aramis pleaded.  
  
Athos had found he could not often say no to Aramis. So he tuned the instrument quickly and started to play.  
  
When the tune came to a quiet end, Aramis and Porthos were watching him avidly.   
  
“That was beautiful.” Porthos said softly.  
  
“Oh Athos, how wonderful that was.” Aramis agreed, ever the romantic. “Next time, Porthos and I should bring our instruments; I think we would sound exquisite as a troupe.”  
  
“You know, I think I would enjoy that.” Athos found himself saying. “I have never seen either of you play an instrument.”  
  
“Then we must. Soon!” Aramis said eagerly.  
  
Athos agreed, and although it was true that they did play together in the future, it was not quite as they planned. For, not that they knew it yet, Athos was not going to be a soldier, or living in his little house in Paris, for very much longer.

 

* * *

 

**11 June 1473**

  
  
Everything changed in June 1473. Athos was on duty early one evening, when a commotion in the next street had he and Phillipe running to find out what was going on. They found six of their comrades, pointing drawn swords at three men who were kneeling on the ground.  
  
“What is going on here?” Phillipe shouted as they strode forward.  
  
“We caught these three thieves red-handed.” One of the soldiers informed them.  
  
Athos looked down at the thieves, to find Porthos looking right back at him. Athos’ heart stopped. Then stuttered. This had been a day he had feared since he became a soldier; Porthos kneeling at his feet, arrested and clapped in iron, with his life resting on Athos’ ability to talk him out of it.   
  
Athos gritted his teeth, checking that neither of Porthos’ companions was Aramis, before staring back at Porthos. He’d clearly fought against his arrest and had been outnumbered because his temple was bleeding and a black-eye was forming. Porthos gave him a minute shrug, apology written all over his face. Of all the years of avoiding capture, Porthos now chose to be reckless, and whilst  _stealing_?!   
  
“What were they stealing?” Phillipe was asking.  
  
“We caught them robbing the house behind you.”  
  
Athos looked up at the house and then back at Porthos. Porthos just stared back. The situation was at a checkmate. Porthos had been caught stealing - a crime worthy of genuine punishment - there was no way that Athos was getting Porthos out of this without truly revealing leniency and loyalty toward the gypsies. Athos could see from Porthos’ pained expression that he had come to the same conclusion.   
  
“Well,” Phillipe said, “That is enough reason for arrest if ever I heard one.” He then looked thoughtful and Athos felt his stomach drop as Phillipe dragged the point of his sword across Porthos’ throat. Phillipe knew of Porthos by sight after years of nearly catching him, and Athos knew that he would not be letting Porthos go now that he finally had him. “Though as we have a legitimate reason…we could just dispose of them here.”  
  
The blatant threat on their lives gave Athos the clear indication of what Porthos’ fate would be. He suddenly saw flashes of could-be scenarios blaring in his mind; Porthos swinging from a rope, Porthos beheaded after being shamed in front of a crowd, Porthos being murdered right there in the cold street with no-one there to fight for him. There was no way out of this for Porthos.  
  
Porthos was struggling now and it took four of the men to hold their three captives down.  
  
“You cannot do this.” Porthos growled out, eyes fixed on Phillipe.  
  
“I think you will find that we can, and Richelieu will title us heroes.” Phillipe corrected.  
  
Athos wrapped a hand around his sword hilt and tried desperately to think of a way to intervene without getting Porthos and his companions killed. Suddenly, a commotion at the side of the house Porthos had been robbing revealed three more people appearing before racing down the street, taking opportunity of the soldiers’ distraction to make an escape.   
“We will handle this.” Phillipe ordered, “You four, follow them!”   
  
Four of the soldiers obeyed Phillipe’s command and went in pursuit of the three fleeing figures.  
  
That left Athos, Phillipe and two more soldiers holding Porthos and his friends. Now was Athos’ moment to act, when they were less outnumbered.  
  
“Right, well we may as well start with you.” Phillipe told Porthos with a smirk. “I have waited a long time for this.” He began to raise his sword.  
  
Athos seized his chance and knocked the blade away from Porthos with his own. “I think not, Phillipe.”  
  
“Athos.” Phillipe growled, clashing his sword against Athos’ before trying to strike at Porthos again. “What are you doing?”  
  
“This.” Athos responded, suddenly slashing out and cutting Phillipe’s leg. Phillipe fell to the floor with a shout. Athos wasted no time in turning to fight off the two soldiers behind him, managing to injure them both before hauling up the one that had the keys. “Give me the keys.” He hissed.  
  
He heard a snarl, and glanced back at Porthos to find Phillipe had managed to right himself whilst Athos had been fighting and was now standing behind Porthos, his knife at Porthos’ throat.   
  
“I knew you loved these gypsies.” Phillipe spat. “Defending them all the time and finding excuses to let them go. But now we have the proof; that the ‘noble’ Athos has no loyalty to Paris, only the scum that infests it.” The blade ran across Porthos neck with a little pressure and Athos could see blood blossoming around the sharp edge even in the darkening street. “This one you have helped once before. Don’t think I don’t remember.”   
Athos met Porthos’ soft brown eyes and between them passed a thousand memories and unsaid feelings. Phillipe must have caught the wordless interaction because he carried on, “Is he a favourite of yours, hmm? Well count yourself a traitor and friendless, now Athos, because this one isn’t going to survive the night…”  
  
Phillipe’s tirade was abruptly cut off by Porthos dropping his head down before flinging it back. There was a crunch as Porthos’ skull met Phillipe’s face, and although Athos had had the terrifying millisecond where he thought the knife had been jerked back into Porthos’ flesh on the impact, when Phillipe dropped to the floor with a cry of agony, Athos saw that the knife had been wrestled away from Phillipe by the captured man on Porthos’ right, despite his hands being bound.  
  
Athos was unsure how much time Porthos had bought them and how long it would take Phillipe or the other two soldiers to get back to their feet, so he stopped asking nicely and, finding the keys in the soldier’s pocket, wrenched them away and rushed to the three gypsies who had staggered to their feet. Athos rushed to each in turn, not daring to take the time to look at or speak to Porthos until the chains had fallen away to the pavement.  
  
“Go.” He whispered urgently at them.  
  
“Do it.” Porthos ordered, and the two men either side of him ran in opposite directions and disappeared into the night.  
  
“You will hang for this Athos!” Phillipe screeched through the blood that was pouring from his broken nose. “Get up you idiots!” He yelled at the two soldiers who were struggling to stand, “Kill them before they escape!”  
  
Athos finally found himself looking up at Porthos, suddenly at a complete loss for what to do. He had just thrown his entire life away in a matter of minutes. He had broken the law. He was now a wanted man. What was he going to do now?  
  
Porthos seemed to understand the lost look in Athos’ eyes as he urgently told him “You can’t stay here.” Before taking Athos’ wrist and pulling him away from the three injured soldiers who were shouting after them.  
  
“Where’s Aramis?” Athos asked as they ran, Porthos leading the way through twisting and turning alleys Athos had never used. It was rare to see Porthos without Aramis those days, and Athos was worrying that one of the three gypsies that had avoided capture and run had been their friend.  
  
“I left him back at the Court.” Porthos replied, his voice jolting as they ran. “I knew the robbery was risky but Jean was confident he had it all figured out.” He snorted. “On hindsight I probably should have paid attention to my own worries.”  
  
“I can’t believe you went along with it.” Athos bit out. “With all the patrols and…” He was unable to finish his sentence as Porthos yanked him back into the shadows of an alley, pressing him up against a wall with a hand over his mouth.  
  
Athos looked silently at Porthos with surprise, and Porthos looked back with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, a warning in his expression, a moment before there were shouts and several figures ran past the end of the alley, missing the two men hiding in the shadows.  
  
“Soldiers.” Porthos breathed, his hand hot on Athos’ face and his breath a warm caress on his face, standing with his body pressed up against Athos’.  
  
Athos glanced down at the hand covering his mouth with a raised eyebrow. Porthos understood the gesture, slowly taking his hand away.  
  
“Where are we going?” Athos whispered, finally wondering where Porthos was leading him.  
  
“Where do you think?” Porthos asked, his voice equally quiet and urgent. “You can’t go back now.” His face crumpled slightly with regret and guilt, “I am so sorry about that, Athos.”  
  
“It was bound to happen one day.” Athos shrugged, defeated, “I was at my wit’s end, so do not apologise. But I also cannot come to the Court with you now.”  
  
“What?!” Porthos looked more wounded than Athos had ever seen him, “You must! There is a manhunt happening right now! Richelieu will be baying for your arrest. You will be welcomed at the Court.”  
  
“I mean that we cannot go there together, right now,” Athos amended. “We have to split up. With me in this garb, we will only draw attention.”  
  
“You cannot go back to your house.” Porthos watched him like he was mad. “They will be waiting for you.”  
  
“I won’t.” Athos promised, though he was lying. “I will travel a separate way to the Court. I will meet you there.”  
  
“Promise me you won’t go back to your house.” Porthos’ hands landed on his shoulders and squeezed them tightly.   
  
More shouting forced them to quiet and push back against the wall again. Once the danger had passed Porthos said “The number of men is only going to increase. If you insist on splitting up then promise me you will see me at the Court before the night is ended.”  
  
“I promise. Now go.” Athos gave Porthos a shove, but the taller man did not budge.  
  
“My recklessness has caused this. Athos I am so so sorry.” Pothos ducked his head. “You have lost everything because of me.”  
  
Athos felt that familiar warmth for the other man blossom in his chest; the knowledge that Porthos cared for him as much as he did for Porthos, “Not at all.” Athos corrected, putting his fingers under his chin and lifting Porthos’ head until their eyes met again. “In fact, the only thing I had left to lose was you, and I wasn’t going to let you leave me in this hellhole.” He quirked a smile.  
  
Porthos regarded him, his open eye tracking Athos’ smile, before flicking up to his eyes and back down to his mouth. And that was when, to Athos’ upmost surprise and delight, Porthos’ hands cupped his face and he kissed him, the taller man pressing Athos back against the wall. Porthos kissed with his whole body, and it left Athos feeling like the weight of fear lifting from him for a moment.  
  
That moment was broken when their shadowed spot was disturbed by something that had lit in the next street. Athos could almost see the group of soldiers holding torches, starting to search the side alleys.  
  
“Come with me now.” Porthos tried again, and Athos could feel Porthos’ heart hammering, though it may well have been his as well, and he wasn’t sure whether it was due to the kiss, or the adrenaline of being on the run.   
  
Athos. The criminal. It seemed completely absurd.  
  
“It’s best that we split up and you know that.” Athos said, fisting his hands in the lapels of Porthos’ jacket and kissing him quickly, unsure as to how exactly the action felt so natural and easy, like he and Porthos’ had been (or should have been, Athos decided) doing it for years. Voices were growing louder and Athos knew it was only a matter of time before their alley was checked. Porthos knew it too. And they had more chance of both making it out alive if they were alone, and less likely to be spotted. “I will see you and Aramis at the Court. Trust me, ok?”  
  
“I trust you.” Porthos said immediately, touching Athos’ face with light fingertips before taking off into the night.

*  
  
The back of his house seemed quiet. It was odd, as Athos had imagined the whole building being surrounded. He picked his way across to the back window that he always left unhatched in case Porthos or Aramis came calling. He looked in through the glass, and his house looked dark inside. Curling his fingers under the window, he began to slowly edge it open. He had said to Porthos that he wouldn’t come back, but he had to. There were things here that he needed. If his life in the city was over and he had to leave his house, fine, but he did have a couple of possessions that he still cared for.   
  
When the window was open enough, he crawled through, stealthy as a cat and then, easy as anything, he was in his house. He had to be fast though. If anyone had been watching the house and saw him enter, they could well spring a trap and have him surrounded in no time. He quickly crossed his kitchen. To walk smack bang into someone.  
  
“What the?!” The person he had walked into growled, and suddenly Athos was met with Captain Treville, his face disbelieving and sincere in the dim light of the house. “Are you insane?!” The Captain hissed. “I did not think you would be mad enough to come back to the house. The whole city is looking out for you, to arrest you for treason!”  
  
Athos stood motionless, poised to flee, unsure as to whether the Captain was going to turn him in or not. He and the Captain had grown close over Athos’ time as a soldier, and Athos hoped the Captain would be lenient on him now. If not Athos would be hanging by a rope at dawn.  
  
“Phillipe and I had a disagreement.”  
  
“Oh I am well aware of that. The front of your house is being watched, just in case you returned. I am supposed to arrest you if you cross the threshold.”  
  
“I came in the back way, so does that not count?”  
  
Treville sighed, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “No-one suspected there was a way through the back. Though I suppose that is how those gypsy friends of yours managed to pay you visits?”  
  
Athos stared, speechless.  
  
Treville snorted quietly. “You think I did not know? I myself am better connected than I led you to believe, just as you hid what you had to from me. The fact that both of us have the same loyalties however will not keep you safe if they catch you. I cannot talk you out of anymore.” Treville pushed a pack into Athos’ hands. “So for whatever god forsaken reason you thought you had to come back here for, get it done immediately, and then escape the way you came in. Get to the Court. It’s the only safe place for you now.”  
  
“I will never be able to repay you for this, Captain.”  
  
“Survive the night and count me repayed. Now go.”  
  
Athos nodded, shedding his armour as he rushed up the stairs. He changed his clothes, stuffing more in the pack. He lifted the floorboard under his bed and grabbed the handfuls of money he had been keeping safe, and finally took his miniature portraits of his brother and parents before descending the stairs.  
  
“I hope you make a better gypsy than you do a soldier.” Treville’s voice commented from the darkness as Athos made to make his escape back through the window.  
  
He smiled, despite the hopeless situation.   
  
He could see torches shining through the front windows of the house from people gathered outside. He didn’t have much time left. “I will see you again, Treville.”  
  
“Just not arrested, I hope.”  
  
“I hope so too.”  
  
*  
  
Athos was unfollowed to the entrance of the Court of Miracles. He had the map-pendant clasped in his hand more for comfort than direction. The sun was just breaching the sky when Athos reached the tombstone that marked the secret passageway. He had spent the whole night running and hiding, not wanting to make a break for the Court too early, just in case. He had promised Porthos that he would get to the Court before the night ended and he had kept his word, waiting until the last possible moment in order to truly make sure that he was not being followed; the task much easier in the early morning light.  
  
The moment he entered the passageway under the tombstone he was expecting the ambush of men with blades that had met him the last time. Instead, he was met with a different ambush altogether.  
  
A body barreled into him and he found himself in a tight embrace. “God, Athos,” Porthos’ relieved voice filled his ear. “I was beginning to think…”  
  
“I told him to have more faith.” Aramis commented on Athos’ other side, and Athos found himself being released by Porthos only to have Aramis wrap his arms around him. “We were both so worried.” The breathy confession was spoken quietly, but they all heard it nonetheless.  
  
“I did not want to risk being followed, I decided to wait it out until I was sure.” Athos explained, finding Aramis’ hand and giving it a squeeze. “I am sorry that you were worrying.”  
  
“We are just glad to see you safe.” Aramis brought a hand to Athos’ neck, this thumb running over his pulse, before smiling coyly and drawing back slightly.  
  
Athos took a look around and found that the three of them were the only people in the passage. “No welcome party this time?” He asked Porthos.  
  
“No. We have guarded the entrance all night.” Aramis admitted. “We were waiting for you.”  
  
Athos smiled fondly at Aramis, before his eyes found Porthos. Although their kisses earlier that night were still at the forefront of his mind, he was now not at all sure how the other man would react now that the adrenaline rush was over. Had it just been a spur of the moment action?  
  
“Aramis was furious with me when I returned and told him what had happened.” Porthos told him, looking guilty. Athos suddenly noted that Porthos’ temple was no longer bloody and was bandaged up – Aramis’ handiwork, undoubtedly – though Porthos’ black eye was beyond saving at that point, and would just be a waiting game to recover.  
  
“Well I could have lost both of you tonight!” Aramis said, voice sharp all of a sudden.  
  
Athos saw Porthos flinch under Aramis’ glare, never one to take well to being at the end of Aramis’ anger. “Well now you have both of us.” Athos saved.  
  
Aramis sent him a dazzling smile, mood changing instantly. “I am so glad you are here. You were too kind to be one of Richelieu's soldiers.”  
  
“Far too kind.” Porthos agreed. Porthos stepped forward again, until he was in front of Athos, “I did not get the chance to thank you for saving my life. It seems I owe you once again.”  
  
“You do not owe me anythi…” Athos started, and then stopped short in surprise when Porthos captured his lips in a kiss.  
  
“I can pay you back in those.” Porthos suggested, sounding hopeful.  
  
Athos startled, leaning forward slightly into Porthos, whilst also seeking out Aramis, worried what the other man’s reaction would be.  
  
He was surprised to find the other man smiling wickedly. “As you both gave me such a fright last night, you are welcome to repay me in a similar manner.” He declared, sending them a wink. He then moved in to place a peck on Athos’ cheek. “Thank you for saving Porthos, we would be lost without him.” The gratitude in Aramis’ eyes, plus what he had implied, made Athos’ wonder whether he could have Aramis too. To have both Porthos and Aramis as his. It was something he had never dared dream.  
  
Unaware of all the thoughts and feelings warring in Athos’ head and chest, Aramis took Athos’ hand, “Welcome to the Court, officially.” He said, before dragging Athos down the passageway, asking him about his ‘daring escape’ across the city.  
  
Athos looked back at Porthos with a raised eyebrow. Porthos was watching them both fondly and he shrugged, making Athos wonder, not for the first time, how close Porthos and Aramis had truly grown whilst down in the Court. The thought made his stomach flutter with aroused interest, as it always did. However, the thoughts faltered when Porthos’ eyes dropped to the bag slung over Athos’ shoulder.  
  
“Athos.” Porthos growled warningly. “You went back to your house didn’t you?”  
  
“Erm…yes…well, about that…”


	3. Chapter 3

**6 January 1474**

  
The boat slipped silently over the River Seine. The occupiers of the boat; four men, a woman and a boy of fifteen, were travelling under the cover of darkness. The only sound they made was the quiet slosh of the oars steering the boat towards the bank. The water was black and flat, the banks under a covering of snow and no-one in the boat dared speak.   
  
The boy huddled further into his cloak, pressed up along his father’s side. He was afraid. All the people in the boat were. He could sense it. His father pretended not to be, but he was. The boy knew. They were attempting to enter Paris, in order to find shelter at the Court of Miracles. They had to do it discreetly. Gypsies were no longer welcome in Paris. They would have to be smuggled further into the city, before attempting to find the Court.  
  
The boy shivered against the chill of the air and in anxious anticipation as the boat bumped the bank and the man rowing the boat motioned for them all to get out.   
  
A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked as they were, he nodded at them and beckoned them forward, holding out his hand for their money. “For safe passage into Paris.” He said gruffly.  
  
As the men of the group fumbled with cold fingers in their pockets, the boy noticed movement under the bridge a little further down the bank. He reached out and grasped his father’s sleeve with a gasp of fear.   
  
His father glanced up before starting back, dragging the boy along with him, as armed men rushed out from under the bridge, followed by a man upon a horse.  
  
“Judge Richelieu…” The man who was supposed to be taking them safely into Paris muttered in terror, and it was clear that he had been unaware of the trap that had been laid for them.  
  
The boy looked at the man on the horse. Looked at the face that would haunt his life for years to come. Richelieu had a stern face, with unforgiving eyes, his greying hair shining slightly in the moonlight. Richelieu wore black, and his horse was the same in colour, a monstrous thick beast that the boy was also afraid of, despite being well acquainted with horses from a farming life so long ago back in Gascony.   
  
Grey eyes regarded them coolly. “Take these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice.” Richelieu ordered of his men.  
  
Before his men could even advance, the boy felt his arm being grabbed, and his father telling him “Charles, run!” And then he and his father were running for their lives.  
  
Charles knew that they were being pursued by Richelieu when he heard the thunder of hooves behind them. His father held onto his arm, leading them through twisting streets, over fences and through small cracks hoping that the Judge would not be able to follow them on horseback.  
  
Charles’ father did not know Paris, so Charles was uncertain of where his father hoped to hide, until his eyes fell upon the top of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Charles knew then, that they were going to claim sanctuary.  
  
The ground was slippery from the ice and snow and still Charles and his father ran. Charles’ breath was freezing in his throat, tearing from him in harsh pants and his chest burned with exertion. His legs ached and his father was clearly not coping as well either, being older in years now, but still they ran. They did not dare stop. The streets still echoed the sound of hooves, making it impossible to tell whether they had lost Richelieu or not, and he did not know how far behind them the Judge was. He did not dare look back for fear of stumbling.   
  
Of all the men their group had prepared to run into as they entered Paris they had never suspected the Judge himself. He was the man of nightmares among the Travelling community, and to Charles he was the epitome of the evil in the world. Charles felt his heart clench as he let himself fleetingly wonder whether their travelling companions had also managed to escape. He and his father had not known them until a few days previously, but they had all had a common hope, and a common enemy. He hoped they had gotten away.  
  
His father pulled him up the steps of the Notre Dame and finally, with great relief, Charles and his father were at the door. His father tried to open it but it was locked. Charles saw his father flash a panicked glance at him, before his father began hammering on the door “Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!”  
  
There was an ominous ‘neigh’ of a horse, far too close by, and Charles whipped around and to his horror, saw the Judge’s horse galloping towards them through the snow. Charles felt his arm being grabbed again as his father gave up on the Cathedral and pulled him in the opposite direction to the Judge, back down the steps and away.  
  
But suddenly the Judge was upon them. Charles found himself being knocked aside by his father and Charles could do nothing but watch helplessly as in a matter of a second, the Judge kicked out with his boot. Charles watched his father fall back down the stone steps. Charles watched his father not get back up again.  
  
“Father?” Charles’ heart was in his throat and the wind was roaring in his ears. Charles ran and skidded to his father’s side. “Father!” He cried out, when he saw the snow was red under his father’s head and his father was not breathing. “No!” He screamed, tears spilling from his eyes. “Please, no, father! Get up! Please! Get up!”  
  
In his shock and grief he paid no heed to the horse towering over him, until its rider dismounted and he was being hauled up and away from his father by the scruff of his cloak.   
  
“No!” Charles screeched, struggling and attempting to reach his father again. “Please! No!”  
  
He was turned in an unforgiving hold and suddenly found himself eye to eye with the devil. “You killed him!” Charles gasped through his tears.  
  
The Judge did not even flinch. His cold stare regarded Charles, assessing, cold and calculating. “Another gypsy child to roam the streets.” He seemed to think about it for a moment. “We cannot have that.” He looked around, not relinquishing his vice-like grip on Charles.   
  
“Please let me go.” Charles begged.  
  
“I will boy. I will.” The Judge said as though he had reached some kind of decision, suddenly dragging Charles forward.  
  
Charles winced in pain at being manhandled so, his feet scuffing against the floor in his fight to stop being pulled along. He glanced up through his hair to see where the Judge was taking him, and his eyes landed upon a stone well not far from the bottom of Notre Dame's steps.  
  
“No.” Charles whispered. With a sickening dread he knew that the only way the Judge was letting him go was down. Down down down in a deep dark well to drown. To be rid of another homeless child. To cover up his murder. “No!”  
  
They reached the well and the Judge did not say a word, forcefully pushing Charles half over the lip of the stone ring. Charles looked down into the darkness and cried, but he did not cry for mercy. He knew he would get none from this man. Judge Richelieu lifted Charles up, trying to get him over, and Charles shot his arms out, bracing himself on the lip of the well, trying to keep his feet on the floor.   
  
“Richelieu!” A voice cracked the silence like lightening, and suddenly, Charles was released. His feet met the floor once more and he collapsed to the snow in relief.  
  
He looked up to find a soldier in elaborate armour standing on the steps of the Notre Dame, near to his father’s body. The man was watching the Judge and Charles in bewilderment.  
  
“Not now, Treville.” The Judge barked out.   
  
“What have you done, Richelieu?!” Treville demanded. “You have spilt innocent blood on the steps of Notre Dame! And about to drown a child?!”  
  
“I am guiltless.” The Judge said. “They ran. I pursued.”  
  
“And now you would add this boy’s blood to your guilt?”  
  
The Judge looked down at Charles with those dead eyes. Charles ducked from the Judges’ reach and rushed across the stones again until he could collapse by his father once again, at the feet of this soldier who might just be his saviour.  
  
“My conscience is clear.” The Judge said to the soldier.  
  
“You can tell yourself that, and tell that to your men,” Treville argued, “But the eyes of Notre Dame have seen what you have done here tonight, and as a religious man, Judge, I can imagine that you would not wish for them to see your crimes.”  
  
Charles glanced up to watch the monster look up at the statues and the gargoyles that lined the exterior of the Notre Dame. And he finally thought he saw some kind of emotion flicker across the Judge’s face. It looked slightly like fear.  
  
“Keep your immortal soul intact.” Treville suggested. “Let the boy go. You have already taken his father. Show him mercy.”  
  
Charles ran his hands through his father’s hair, damp with snow and blood, and felt that his father’s skin had grown cold. Tears dripped down Charles' cheeks still. He was unaware of the silent battle that was taking place over his head.  
  
Finally the Judge snapped, “Fine. I will let the boy go, for now. But I will find him again. Mark my words Captain. And he will be dealt with properly.” He mounted his horse. “I will be sending soldiers back here as soon as I come across any, so I want you to dispose of these gypsies by the time they arrive. Understand, Captain?”  
  
“Yes Sir.” The Captain forced out through clenched teeth.  
  
Charles flinched as the horse reared and thundered out of sight, taking the monster that would haunt Charles’ dreams with him.  
  
Charles started backwards in fright when the soldier knelt down at his side.  
  
“It’s ok.” The man soothed, raising empty hands in a placating gesture. “It’s ok, boy. What’s your name?”  
  
“d’Artagnan.” Charles whispered. “Charles d’Artagnan.”  
  
“d’Artagnan.” The Captain repeated. “It is not safe for you here. You must run. Now.”  
  
“My father…” Charles’ fingers clenched into his father’s cloak. “You can’t!”  
  
“I must take his body to be buried.” Treville rushed urgently, “And soldiers will be here soon. Do not trust any soldier in this city who is not me. They will arrest you. Do you understand me?”  
  
Charles nodded, his eyes clouded with tears and he flung himself forwards onto his father’s body. “What will I do?” He choked. “Where will I go?”  
  
“Find one of your own people, they perform in the streets daily. The first one you see, tell them that you need to see Athos. Do you understand?”  
  
“Athos?” Charles repeated.  
  
“Yes. Remember that name. They will take you to Athos, and he will help you. You will be safe. They will take you to the Court.”  
  
Charles looked up at the soldier with fear. “But I don’t…”  
  
“You must go now! Leave your father with me, he is in good hands, you have my word.”  
  
“I…” Charles’ voice wavered and broke. He reached down and slid his father’s ring from his cold finger, clutching it in his hand.  
  
“Now!” The Captain insisted, finally giving up on patience and hauling Charles to his feet. “Run, boy.” He ordered. “d’Artagnan, run!”  
  
And just like that, Charles became d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan was once again running for his life. Fleeing from the Notre Dame and his father’s death, but still following the same orders that both his father and Captain Treville had given him – Run.  
  
He found an entertainer just as the sun came up on the streets of Paris. The streets were mostly empty, but he saw a woman at the corner of a building, setting an array of items out on a blanket. “Please.” d’Artagnan gasped as he reached her. He had been running all night. He was cold, his chest ached, his feet and legs burned, and above all, his heart was broken. “Please, I need to find Athos. Will you take me to Athos?!”  
  
The woman looked at him in surprise. “Athos?” She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, “What do you want with Athos?”

  
*

Athos woke up with Porthos’ arm over his waist, and Aramis’ legs tangled with his own. He stretched languidly, careful not to disturb the other men. They had slept in late, but they were not needed out on the streets that day, they had duties in the Court to attend to.  
  
It had been surprising really, how well Athos had fitted into the Court in just over six months. He had found himself well suited to the life, and he found it more comfortable than the Noble and Solider lives that he had tried to live before.  
Everyone had welcomed him into the Court after all he had done for the gypsy community, and he was now just as respected as Aramis in the Court. Porthos, of course, was second in command only to Charon and the King of the Court, and Athos had found that if he had Porthos’ trust, he was guaranteed most other people’s trust too. Athos had proven himself a talented musician also, now performing on the streets of Paris, avoiding capture and living in a completely opposite world to the one he had occupied only half a year before.   
  
Aramis had also decided that Athos looked very good in the gypsy attire and had taken great joy in experimenting in lining Athos’ eyes with kohl, similar to Aramis’ own, and dressing him in the loosest shirts and tightest trousers he could find. Porthos, on the other hand, liked to see both Athos and Aramis in lots of gold. Aramis wore bangles and rings and earrings, and Athos himself now sported a small hoop in his earlobe. It had not taken long for Athos, Porthos and Aramis to easily fall into their three-way relationship. It just seemed natural. Not that it would be deemed natural by many others, and there was an unspoken acknowledgment in the Court that yes, the three men were close, but any further relationship between the three was never mentioned (no-one commented, for example, about the three sharing a tent, far away from the other sleeping arrangements). The three, already titled the ‘Inseparables’ due to how close they were, kept their intimate relationship for privacy. And it was these mornings that Athos loved more than anything, a lazy morning with the most precious people to him in the world.  
  
Aramis stirred beside him, his eyes squinting open. “Morning.” He said, sending Athos the most dazzling smile.  
  
“Morning.” Athos responded, propping himself up on his elbow slightly to languidly kiss Aramis to full wakefulness. Aramis hummed happily, shifting so that Athos could drop to his back and Aramis could slide on top of him. Athos traced light fingers down Aramis’ sides, feeling the younger man shiver on top of him. When Athos’ hands found the scarred flesh on Aramis’ side, Aramis gasped and pushed his face into Athos’ neck.   
  
“Still sensitive there?” Athos whispered.  
  
He felt Aramis nod against him.   
  
Athos kissed Aramis’ dark curls, feeling lips move to his collarbone in response.  
  
“Well, this is a pleasant sight to wake to.” Porthos smiling voice had Athos and Aramis both turning their heads towards him.  
  
“Morning, love.” Aramis offered, leaning down to kiss Porthos.  
  
Porthos then moved to kiss Athos likewise, before collapsing back down to the blankets and pillows. “What time is it?”  
  
“Not time to get up yet.” Aramis informed him, turning back to run his tongue over Athos’ skin.  
  
Athos groaned. “I agree.”  
  
Porthos laughed, his eyes crinkling, “You know we have duties this morning.”  
  
Aramis sighed dramatically, dropping his head with a thud onto Athos’ chest. “If you insist, darling.”

*

Athos was busy discussing the food stores with Flea, when he heard the shout of “Athos!” from across the court.  
  
Athos looked around to find Elaine rushing towards him, pulling somebody along behind her. Her shout and hurried movements caused quite the stir, as people’s attentions were caught and they began to follow.  
  
“What’s going on?” Aramis asked as he came up behind Athos.   
  
Athos shrugged and walked toward Elaine to meet her halfway. The middle-aged motherly woman stopped, panting heavily, when she reached them. “Athos.” She repeated, “This young one found me this morning.” She then ushered a boy out from behind her to stand in front of Athos.  
  
The boy looked about fifteen or sixteen, quite tall already, with black hair, tanned skin and dark brown eyes that looked around him in a nervous mixture of trepidation, wonder and sadness. His eyes then locked onto Athos.  
  
“You are Athos?” He asked.  
  
“I am.” Athos said in confusion.  
  
As though given permission to let go, the boy dropped to his knees and gave a grief-stricken moan, clutching his face in his hands. Athos startled and looked back to find Aramis and Porthos watching him in stunned silence, along with most of the Court.   
  
Not knowing what else to do, or how this mysterious boy knew his name, Athos knelt down before the boy. “Who are you?”  
  
“My name is d’Artagnan.” The boy said, tear-filled eyes looking straight into Athos’ and Athos could see a whirlwind of emotion in those dark eyes. Eyes that looked too old and haunted for the boy’s years. “I’m from Gascony.”  
  
“He was travelling with a small group of our kind,” Elaine informed Athos when d’Artagnan said no more. “Entered Paris last night by the water and walked straight into a trap. Athos, Judge Richelieu was among the men waiting.”  
  
Athos head shot up in surprise. “What?!” Richelieu did not often go out on patrol. He did not like to do the dirty work himself. Athos found himself looking at the boy in wonderment, “Then how are you here?”  
  
“He chased us to Notre Dame.” d’Artagnan’s voice was wobbling, “He killed my father.” He gasped as the first tears began to fall from already reddened eyes, “On the steps.”  
  
Athos heard Aramis gasp aloud behind him, and Athos spared a glance to make sure that he was alright, memories of finding Aramis dying on those same steps flooding his mind. Porthos had taken hold of Aramis’ arm, keeping him grounded.  
  
“And then he tried to drown me.” d’Artagnan’s next words had Athos’ attention flying back.   
  
“What?!” Aramis cried aloud this time, rushing forwards to kneel by the boy also, taking his hand, “You poor thing, I am so sorry.”  
  
“How are you not dead?” Porthos asked in stunned surprise, regarding the boy with interest and joining Athos and Aramis on the floor with the boy.  
  
“I was saved. Captain Treville…” d’Artagnan paused, clearly waiting for the reaction of recognition from Athos, and once finding what he was looking for carried on “He stopped him. He said he’d take care of my father’s body.” He took a deep breath and his hands were shaking slightly in Aramis’ hold. “And then he told me to find you, Athos.”  
  
Athos nodded, absolutely stunned by the terrible losses that had befallen the boy at Richelieu’s hands. “Treville did right. You are safe here, d’Artagnan.” He placed his hand over Aramis and d’Artagnan’s. Athos looked to Porthos for support, Porthos always knew what to say.  
  
For once, it appeared Athos had said the right thing, as all Porthos did was join his hand to the pile and repeat, “You are safe here with us, d’Artagnan.”

* * *

 

**28 August 1481**

 

It had been nearly seven years since d’Artagnan had come to Paris. Nearly seven years since the death of his father. Seven years since everything left of his old life was taken from him by Judge Richelieu. Nearly seven years since he had found light again in the forms of Athos, Porthos and Aramis.

Before his father’s death, life had not been easy for d’Artagnan. After his mother’s death, his father had decided to start travelling again, moving them away from the farmhand work that they had become accustomed to in Gascony. With Richelieu’s influence spreading over all of France, times had been difficult for them wherever they had gone. d’Artagnan’s father had thought that the Court of Miracles would be a safe haven for them. And it had been for d’Artagnan. His father had never made it there.

Porthos, Athos and Aramis had been key figures in putting d’Artagnan’s life back together. They stood as role models and idols for him as he grew from a boy into a man. He trusted the three Inseparables more than anyone else and had learnt all he knew of the Parisian gypsy-life from them. It had turned out that he was a natural talent at many of the skills required to be a successful street performer and he was a fast learner.

Not only had he enjoyed learning tricks from Porthos and Aramis, who were old hands at the business, but he had enjoyed spending time with the men that had been his saviours and had refused to let him fall into darkness after Richelieu’s attack.

When d’Artagnan was eighteen, his idols became his lovers. Athos, Porthos and Aramis had already been together for nearly four years before d’Artagnan had become a part of the relationship; Athos and Porthos having known each other since they were children, and Aramis joining them some time later. d’Artagnan would not even now be able to distinguish exactly when he became the fourth member to their relationship. He had loved them for two years before anything happened between them, and it had just seemed natural the first time they fell together, but he thought that the transition had been happening slowly since his eighteenth birthday. All he knew was that he loved them unconditionally, and he felt safe and loved by them in return. They were his life. He felt guilty now and again for thinking that he would not have wished for his life to have taken him down any other course, because although he was still haunted by the memory of his father being kicked down and killed on the steps of Notre Dame, he could not imagine his life without his three Inseparables.

He was 23 now, and had been lovers with Porthos, Athos and Aramis for around five years. He knew them almost as well as he knew himself. Athos still had his secrets that he would not share with even Porthos, but d’Artagnan knew his heart, and that was what mattered to him. The pasts of his Inseparables had intrigued him and he had taken great pleasure in getting to truly know them over the time he had spent with them.

Porthos; ten years his senior, was now 33. Porthos had had a tough life, growing up an orphan in the Court. Porthos had never known a lifestyle other than this. He had been judged and hounded his whole life by Richelieu and his ilk, and yet had managed to remain out of their hands. The old King of the Court had been killed two years ago, and so now Porthos, Charon and Flea held joint leadership over the Court as the new 'Kings' and 'Queen'. Porthos was the most respected man in the Court, but it was not surprising. He was tough, but fair. He hid his big heart well when he needed to, but it was something he never hid from Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan. With Athos and Aramis at his side, supporting him and offering their advice, Porthos had also become the most effective of the three Court leaders.

Athos had been the hardest of the three for d’Artagnan to crack, despite Athos’ fondness for him since the day they met. d’Artagnan knew that Athos had grown up in a noble family outside of Paris, and had had a younger brother. Every year or so since he had been young, Athos had visited Paris and had interacted with Porthos when he had seen him on the streets, and they had formed their unbreakable bond. It was the years of Athos’ late teens that remained somewhat of a mystery. From what Porthos could make out, Athos had met and fallen in love with a woman, who had then wronged him in some way and then Athos had also lost his brother, in a short space of time. Because the next thing Porthos had known, Athos was no longer a noble heir and was signed up to be a soldier for Richelieu. After that, d’Artagnan had been given detailed accounts by Aramis as to how Athos had saved him, and then Porthos, and had daringly defied Richelieu and joined them in the Court.

d’Artagnan had believed that Aramis, with his long and elaborate tales of his adventures, was an open book from the beginning. But he had been mistaken. Even now something would arise about Aramis’ past that none of them had ever heard before, and Aramis would say something akin to ‘Oh? I was positive I had told you that’ and then he would carry on as though it had not been a revelation. Aramis was only slightly younger than Athos’ 32 years and Porthos’ 33, but he was still as youthful and mischievous as he had been when d’Artagnan had first met him and Aramis had been 22. Aramis had grown up travelling between small villages on each side of the French-Spanish border. When he had been young, he had considered taking up a religious vocation, but his grandmother had had other ideas, when she began to teach him ‘black magic’ and obscure forms of traveller entertainment. After the deaths of his grandmother and parents (Aramis would still not tell them how or why his family had died, which suggested it had not been of natural causes), Aramis had joined a travelling company. He had been a hit with the women who enjoyed his romantic arts, and admired by the men for his daring with dangerous tricks. It had only been when Aramis had left with his travelling group for Paris, driven away from their usual territory by the growing fear and suspicion of travelling folk, that the Massacre of Savoy had taken place, and thus, Aramis had been found by Athos and brought to Porthos and the Court.

“You are thinking too loud, d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan turned his head to the side as arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and his lips brushed gently against stubble. “Sorry.”

Athos hummed nonchalantly against his ear.  “No need to apologise. What has you so distracted?”

d’Artagnan smiled, his hand ghosting over the backs of Athos’ fingers. “Just thinking about you and Porthos and Aramis.”

“I hope they are nice thoughts.”

d’Artagnan laughed softly. He loved these moments, where Athos was less serious and burdened by the world. “Very nice.” He grinned.

He felt the gentle press of lips against his temple before he was turned around in Athos’ arms. “You ready to head out for the day?”

It had been a good summer, for a change. The people of Paris had been growing increasingly tired of Richelieu’s iron fist, and gypsies had been a bit freer to come and go and perform. People still enjoyed watching the shows, and seemed less willing to report them. Maybe it had been because of the blessed weather they had had over the past few months, or maybe it was down to another reason entirely. Due to the good weather and unusually generous, enthusiastic crowds they had been drawing, the gypsies had been performing on the streets almost every day. Out in such numbers that it was more difficult for Richelieu’s men to truly make a dent on their earnings or corner any particular group. d’Artagnan was a skilled dancer, admired in the Court as one of the best. He, Aramis, Athos and Porthos had been going out together more frequently. To dance, play instruments or other tricks of the trade, though Aramis had been disappointed that he had not been allowed by Porthos to perform any of his ‘best work’ over the summer.

Porthos feared that Aramis’ speciality brand of entertainment would be too risky for the daily Parisian crowds, and that suspicion of the dark arts would grow. Aramis was allowed to perform his specialities during the week of Feast of Fools and in the Court itself, but at any other time he was restricted. Aramis was talented in many other areas, but he was clearly frustrated at being held back. It was also understandable from Porthos’ perspective also, and Porthos had Athos’ support on his decision. They were afraid that Aramis would be accused of witchcraft; which would earn him nothing but being burnt at the stake or drowned without fair trial. Aramis was sly, however. And even if he could not perform what he wanted, he had managed to give Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan a lesson or two about illusionist powders. d’Artagnan in particular had been fascinated by what Aramis had been taught, and following d’Artagnan pleading with him to know more, Aramis had obliged, tutoring him on a couple of secret occasions. Despite d’Artagnan’s want to learn, he also insisted Aramis keep his secret knowledge, just that; a secret. The thought of his lover being found guilty of witchcraft, or indeed losing any of his Inseparables to execution, made d’Artagnan’s gut twist painfully with a sickening fear. He did not linger over such fears often to save himself the heart breaking pain of imagining.

Even now, the thought made his heart clench, and he leant forward to mouth at Athos’ large hooped earring, half covered by his unruly brown locks. “I’m ready. Where are Aramis and Porthos?”

“With Flea. They asked me to fetch you, though I admit I am not following my orders as hastily as I should be.”

“Am I a little too distracting for you, Athos?” d’Artagnan asked innocently, moving to press his lips to the corner of Athos’ mouth, which was curled slightly in a smile.

“I think you already know the answer to that question.” Athos said, pressing their lips more firmly together before pulling away. “Come. We need to eat something before we go out.”

d’Artagnan nodded, letting Athos lead the way out of the private alcove d’Artagnan had been standing in.

*

“There you are!” Porthos’ grin lit up the whole Court when d’Artagnan and Athos found them. d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to kiss the smile from Porthos’ face, but they kept their relationship private from prying eyes. He resisted and only squeezed Porthos’ arm instead.

“Sorry, Porthos, I got distracted.”

“And then he went about distracting me.” Athos commented unapologetically, sharing a smile with Porthos.

“Well, you weren’t the only ones.” Porthos nodded across the Court to where Aramis was flitting about among the stalls. “He’s being a particular menace today.”

d’Artagnan’s breath never failed to stall slightly when he saw Aramis. The man was particularly stunning; his hair in messy curls about his face, adorned with jewellery, and today, wearing low slung purple pants, held up by a green scarf, and a white shirt.

“Can that even be called a shirt?” Athos appeared to be watching Aramis as closely as d’Artagnan.

It was true. The white shirt was both too short, and showed a line of tanned, toned stomach, and was also so v-necked that most of his chest was on show as well.

“Are you complaining?” d’Artagnan smirked at him, knocking his elbow into Athos’ side.

“Not at all.” Athos said.

Porthos shrugged, “Aramis knows what draws in the crowds.” It was not just Aramis who was popular with the crowds either. As a troupe, the four of them made for an appealing display. Porthos with his strong, dark physique and handsome face; Athos still kept his elegant presence of a nobleman, attractive in his rugged mysteriousness; and even d’Artagnan had been informed by his lovers on many occasion that he was pleasing to the eye, with his tan skin, lithe frame and dark hair, with a single large earring only just visible beneath it. The four complimented each other beautifully in both appearance and performance, and were often the biggest earners of the Court.

d’Artagnan watched Aramis turn around and notice all three of them staring at him. He was in front of them seconds later, eyes glinting in amusement. “What are you all staring at?”

“I think you know.” Athos said, rolling his eyes.

“I assure you, I don’t.” Aramis grinned wickedly, obviously knowing exactly why they had been staring.

“We were debating your sorry excuse for a shirt.” Porthos leant in to whisper into Aramis’ ear, just loudly enough that Athos and d’Artagnan could hear him as well. “We will take great joy in taking it off of you later.”

Aramis laughed delightedly. “I look forward to it.”

“So, what’s the plan for today?” d’Artagnan asked, trying to move his mind away from the promise of later, and his eyes away from the low V of Aramis’ shirt and the trail of hair that disappeared under the green scarf about his hips.

“Well, seen as though your dancing draws in people like nothing else, our little star,” Aramis began, looping his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulder and cocking his hip slightly so that their sides were pressed together, “You shall dance, Athos and Porthos will astound them with their musical abilities and I will hover in the background with the hopes of hiding behind your talents.”

That of course, was a lie. Aramis was as capable at any of the performing trades as any of them. Athos rolled his eyes again. “Fishing for compliments this morning, aren’t we, Aramis?”

“Oh, you know me...” Aramis winked, his fingers trailing over the bare flesh of d’Artagnan’s shoulder, exposed by his off-the-shoulder shirt. The light, ticklish sensation always made d’Artagnan squirm, and he pressed even closer to Aramis to avoid the fingers. Aramis laughed quietly into his ear, “Shall I dance with you, my star?”

d’Artagnan nodded a little too eagerly. “You should.”

“Well, that settles it then.” Aramis said, looking like he was about to kiss d’Artagnan before remembering they were in public and reluctantly releasing him.

d’Artagnan looked away from Aramis to find Athos and Porthos watching them hungrily. d’Artagnan cleared his throat coyly. “Maybe we should get going?”

Porthos blinked, “Yes. Yes, we probably should.”

*

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen,” Aramis called out, a little breathless and flushed, as d’Artagnan and he finished the latest dance.

d’Artagnan looked at Aramis, his stupid shirt sticking obscenely to skin with a light sheen of sweat. He was breathless himself, the hot sun prickling almost uncomfortably at his damp flesh. He ran a hand back through his black hair, heated by the sun on top and wet at the back of his neck from exertion.

The crowd, made up mostly of women, were tittering and cheering, and - d’Artagnan was pleased to see - leaving plenty of coin.

He grinned over at Porthos, who was stretched out by the wall they had set up next to, still idly playing on the pipes, whilst Athos perched on a stool not far away, plucking at his lute with slender, talented fingers.

“We will be taking a short break,” Aramis announced, “But will be beginning another performance before the afternoon is done.”

Suddenly, d’Artagnan heard a sharp whistle and turned on his heel to see Gerard, a small boy who acted as lookout for them, standing nimbly atop the wall. Guards were coming. As relaxed as the discipline had been this summer, if the guards had intent to arrest a particular group, it still paid to be cautious and move on as quickly as possible, or risk being put in the stocks. Or in their case, arrested; particularly with Athos still being wanted for treachery and Porthos for being a key figure of the Court who was renowned for giving the Guards the slip.

“Or maybe not.” Aramis called out. “We shall see you all soon, however, I have no doubt.” Aramis smiled and bowed to the women who were still lingering around them. “It has been a pleasure to perform to such beautiful ladies. We hope to see you again soon.”

d’Artagnan watched Gerard drop from the wall to whisper something to Porthos before taking off. Porthos looked at them in concern.

“We have to go. Now. It’s not just guards.”

“Who is it then?” Athos asked, getting up and watching Porthos with unease. The tone of Porthos’ voice had sent a similar wariness through d’Artagnan.

“Richelieu, possibly. His carriage is heading this way with an entourage of guards.”

“Definitely time to go then.” Aramis said, gathering the sack of coins hurriedly and handing them to Porthos. “What’s the plan? Back to the Court?”

“No,” Porthos shook his head. “Too risky. Split up and head to our safe houses if need be, otherwise meet back at the Court at intervals. Yes?”

Athos nodded, clasping d’Artagnan’s shoulder before starting off down the street.

“See you later.” Aramis smiled quickly, equally making himself scarce.

“You be careful.” Porthos told d’Artagnan as he started to turn away, “And for god’s sake avoid that bastard, alright?”

d’Artagnan had not encountered Richelieu since the night his father had died; sighting him from afar a couple of times before at the Feast of Fools but no closer. For that he was glad. Those eyes still haunted his nightmares. Porthos knew this better than any of them, and on all previous Feasts, had made sure that d’Artagnan was kept out of Richelieu’s sight, or disguised, alongside Athos, so that Richelieu could not see or recognise them.

“I will, don’t worry about me.” d’Artagnan sent Porthos a reassuring smile, reaching out to briefly squeeze his hand. “I will see you later.”

Porthos returned the smile, “Say hello to Constance for me.”

“I will.” d’Artagnan promised, before turning away and running down the street in the direction Athos had disappeared.

The gypsies often used safe houses in order to escape and hide from guard patrols in the city. The safe houses mainly consisted of houses of the people of Paris who were allied to their cause (though Aramis often used churches as well). d’Artagnan well remembered the tales he was told of when Athos had provided a safe house for Porthos and then Aramis whilst he had been a soldier. Now that the three of them did not have what they once had, the four of them now had new favourite houses to go to, which they tried not to visit too often, for fear of getting their hosts caught for being sympathetic to the gypsies. All the hosts of their hiding places were great friends of theirs, determined to fight against the cruelty of prejudice that had engulfed the city. Athos went to an old friend of his; the Countess Ninon de Larroque; Porthos was close to a widower named Alice that he had become a confidant for; Aramis had many a lady on his list to visit, though most frequented Adele Bassett, who held a mutual dislike of the Judge Richelieu and a defiant streak; and d’Artagnan? Well, he had Constance.

Constance Bonacieux was the wife of a cloth merchant. She was a strong, confidant, beautiful woman whose bright light was sadly shadowed rather by the tediousness of her husband. She craved danger and adventure, which was why, one day four years ago when d’Artagnan had found himself jumping from a window to avoid capture, she had been the one to take him in. If d’Artagnan was not already infatuated with his Inseparables, he was sure that he would be in love with Constance. He did already love Constance with every fibre of his being, but as his best friend. She had met Athos, Aramis and Porthos through d’Artagnan and they had all gotten on remarkably well, despite her having slapped Aramis during their first encounter.

Monsieur Bonacieux did not know, even after four years, that a gypsy had ever set foot in his house, let alone visit it every couple of months. Constance was clever like that, and d’Artagnan always made sure that if he was going to visit her, that he would do it at a time that he knew Bonacieux would be away from home on business. d’Artagnan knew that Constance liked keeping a secret from her husband and he knew she cared for d’Artagnan and wanted to help him, but d’Artagnan was constantly wary and afraid for her, not daring to imagine a day where Constance’s kindness might be discovered, but also unable to fathom no longer being able to go and see her; to sit and chat and spend some time free of cares in company other than members of the Court.

Besides, they had fighting lessons that they had not yet completed.

It was Constance’s bizarre idea, that d’Artagnan would not repay her for her kindness by coin, but by teaching her how to fight and use a sword. It was something d’Artagnan had only learned himself since joining the Court (Porthos teaching him the tricks of street fighting, Athos the practiced skill of the sword, and Aramis archery and methods of escape) but d’Artagnan relayed his lessons to her. She enjoyed the lessons immensely, and was talented at them too, quick and eager to learn.

When d’Artagnan arrived at her house, he checked for the hundredth time that no-one was following him or watching, before nimbly hoisting himself over the garden wall, weaving through clothes hanging outside before tapping on the back door. Constance opened it moments later.

“Constance.” d’Artagnan smiled at her brightly, before being pulled in to a hug.

“It is good to see you, d’Artagnan.” Constance said, leading him into the house and closing the door behind him. “You haven’t been here in a while and I do always worry for you.”

“I’m sorry.” d’Artagnan kissed the back of her hand, “I shall try and come more often.”

“You’d better.” She finally smiled at him, eyes fond, “So, tell me, how are you? And your Inseparables?”

That was something else that Constance knew of him that no-one else did. His love for Porthos, Athos and Aramis. She not only knew of it but she seemed to have absolutely no issue with it, something that had surprised d’Artagnan immensely. But d’Artagnan had since learned that whenever he underestimated Constance, she always always surprised him.

“I am well, thank you, and so are they.” d’Artagnan told her, sitting at the kitchen table when she motioned for him to do so. “I was with them before I had to come here.”

“You were dancing?”

d’Artagnan nodded. Constance had seen them perform a couple of times on the street, and always stopped to watch.

“I do love how you dance.” She sighed.

“Thank you.” d’Artagnan said, feeling his ears heat up under his hair at the praise. “And how are you?”

“I am well.”

“And your husband?”

She frowned. “I will tell you whilst we practice some sword skills.”

That was basically Constance’s way of saying she needed to release pent up frustration that was more often than not, caused by her husband.

“He’s the same as usual then.” d’Artagnan summarised.

“Hmm.”

“Well,” d’Artagnan said, clapping his hands in the hopes that the disgruntled dullness in her eyes would disappear, “I could never say no to teaching my lady something new.”

Constance shook herself from her frown and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you d’Artagnan.”

“Any time, Constance, any time.”

*

“Here.” Constance said a couple of hours later, holding a long coat out to d’Artagnan. “The nights are still chilly and you’ll catch your death out there.” She eyed his outfit up and down, “And that outfit isn’t exactly discreet, is it?”

d’Artagnan laughed. “You should have seen what Aramis was wearing earlier.”

“I am both unsurprised at him, and jealous of you.” She teased, pushing the coat, which was plain brown and inconspicuous looking, into his hands.

“Is this your husbands?” d’Artagnan asked warily. “I would not have him suspect you of…”

Constance waved away his concerns. “It is old and he hasn’t worn it in years, since his trade went more upmarket. If he really upsets himself if he finds it missing I will say that I used it for patching something or that it was stolen from the line. Do not worry yourself about me.”

“How is it fair that you are allowed to worry about me but I am not allowed to worry about you?”

“It is unfair that we should even have to be worried about each other at all.” Constance said, as d’Artagnan reached out to tuck an auburn curl back behind her ear.

“That is most true.” He reached out and embraced her. “I will try and come by again soon.”

“Please do, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” He let her go. “I had best get going before your husband gets home.”

Constance nodded, leading him to the back door. “Be careful on your way back. And Porthos was right, you watch out for Judge Richelieu, god forbid if he ever found out who you are…”

“I doubt he would remember me.” d’Artagnan said, shrugging on the coat. “Mine and my father’s faces were two in hundreds.”

Constance gave him a sad smile, “As macabre as it is, I hope you’re right.”

d’Artagnan bent to kiss her hand, as he did every time he arrived at or left her house. “Thank you for having me once again. You are the most gracious hostess.”

“Your manners are improving, d’Artagnan. Your Inseparables have taught you well.”

“Please, I always had this charm.”

“Hmm.” She raised an eyebrow, before saying “You are welcome to come here any time, remember that.”

“I will.” d’Artagnan promised, before bidding her goodbye, climbing back over the wall and into the growing dusk.

*

d’Artagnan kept his head up as he walked along. A man who walked around like he was not a criminal looked less suspicious than one who tried to keep his head down. He was walking past a small church, already halfway back to the Court, when he realised that he recognised the carriage sitting outside of it, and the man about to climb in to it.

Unable to turn back without drawing unwanted attention from the group of guards that were now exiting the Church, d’Artagnan had no other option than to carry on and hope that the coat disguised him as another commoner to Richelieu and his men, and not someone that they considered to be lower than that.

Unfortunately, luck was not on d’Artagnan’s side that night.

Judge Richelieu’s eyes fell on him. It had been nearly seven years, but d’Artagnan felt goosebumps begin to rise on his skin when he swore he saw recognition on Richelieu’s face.

“You there.” The Judge said, his voice still as cold and commanding, if not more so now.

d’Artagnan tensed. The Judge had spoken to him. What was he supposed to do?

The Judge made d’Artagnan’s decision for him, moving away from the carriage and standing in d’Artagnan’s way. d’Artagnan had no choice but to stop and look up into the eyes of the man who murdered his father.

Richelieu’s piercing gaze travelled up and down him, before lingering on his face. “Have I seen you somewhere before?” The Judge asked. His words were spoken with more hostility than curiousness; the Judge recognised him but clearly could not place him, and that appeared to be unnerving and irritating him.

“No, my Lord, I do not believe I have had the honour.” d’Artagnan forced out, knowing that being anything other than gracious would give him away, despite the words tasting like foul ashes in his mouth.

Richelieu stared at him a moment longer with those icy grey eyes before turning away disinterestedly, dismissing him.

d’Artagnan carried on before any of the guards saw him and recognised his face from previous occasions of cat-and-mouse situations.

By the time he had turned the corner into the next street he was violently shaking, having to prop himself up on the nearest building, before throwing up onto the cobbles.

* 

D’Artagnan managed to make it back to the Court without further incident, heading straight for the private alcove that he and the Inseparables shared as sleeping quarters. It was far away from other sleeping accommodations; the entrance to their room separated from the rest of the Court by thick curtains that kept the inside comfortably warm, and the noises made within near completely soundproofed.  If any of his Inseparables had returned from their safe houses yet, that was where he would find them. He was desperate to get to the place that felt more like home to him than anywhere else, to feel safe in their separated world, and lie down among the blankets and cushions and have his lovers there with him. Where fears and Judge Richelieu could never ever touch him.

He flung back the curtain and found Porthos sprawled out on their layers of bedding. He was the only one back, it seemed. Porthos cracked open an eye, but before he could even greet him, d’Artagnan had wasted no time in flinging himself down and into Porthos’ arms, burying his face in Porthos’ chest and unable to stop the tears spilling from his eyes.

“Hey. Hey.” Porthos sounded completely bewildered, one arm fastening protectively around d’Artagnan’s waist, and the other reaching up to run soothingly through his hair. “What’s wrong? d’Art?”

d’Artagnan took a couple of deep breaths, letting the safety and smell of Porthos calm him down.

“And where the hell did this coat come from?” Porthos asked, and d’Artagnan could hear the distaste in his voice.

d’Artagnan managed a weak laugh, before finally looking up and into Porthos’ concerned dark eyes. “It’s Monsieur Bonacieux’s.”

Porthos’ arm tightened around him. “He didn’t catch you at his house, did he?”

d’Artagnan shook his head, “It was after I left, I…” He stopped, shuddering at the memory of Richelieu moving to block his way. Seeing his face again.

“Hey,” Porthos said softly, pressing a kiss to d’Artagnan’s temple. “What is it?”

“I saw Richelieu.” d’Artagnan said, his quiet voice betraying his horror. “And he saw me.” He added on a whisper.

“He what?” Porthos asked, bundling d’Artagnan further on top of him so he could embrace him properly. “He didn’t recognise you? Surely?”

“I think he did.” d’Artagnan admitted, “He saw me and stopped me. He must have thought I looked familiar but couldn’t place me and…oh god, Porthos it was awful. His eyes…they were just like I remember…”

Porthos shushed him, running a thumb across the tear tracks down d’Artaganan’s cheeks. “Your safe here with me, now, ok? He can’t harm you here.”

d’Artagnan wound his fingers into the thin fabric of Porthos’ shirt, “But what if he finds _here_?”

“He hasn’t found it yet, and he’s been looking for it my entire lifetime.” Porthos said firmly, kissing d’Artagnan’s cheek. “He won’t find it.”

d’Artagnan nodded, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes and scrubbing away the last traces of tears. “Of course. I know. Sorry. I…”

“Don’t apologise.” Porthos cut him off. “I should have come with you to Constance’s. After seeing Richelieu I shouldn’t have left you.”

“If he had seen you he would have recognised you instantly.” d’Artagnan said, holding onto Porthos tighter, “He would have tried to arrest you, Porthos, don’t say that. We couldn’t lose you.”

“Well I ain’t going anywhere.” Porthos promised.

d’Artagnan smiled, his throat no longer feeling so constricted by tears, and leant up to kiss Porthos properly. Porthos’ strong arms around him always made him feel better. “Aramis and Athos not back yet?” He asked when he pulled away.

Porthos shook his head; a rather adorable motion when his head was pressed back against pillows. “Not yet. They must be busy catching up with Ninon and Adele. So, how was Constance?”

“Fine. She says hello to you too, by the way.” d’Artagnan dropped another kiss to Porthos’ lips. “And how is the lovely Alice?”

“She’s well. Has a few suitors at the moment but I don’t think she can abide any of them.” Porthos grinned. “I always did like that woman.”

“That’s because I think you are the only man in the whole of France that she tolerates.”

Porthos shrugged. “I must just be more a gentlemen than the articles themselves.”

d’Artagnan smiled into Porthos’ neck. “I think you might be right.”

“I love you.” Porthos said into d’Artagnan’s hair. d’Artagnan tried to hide his smile into Porthos’ skin, but then his face was being lifted up by two gentle fingers under his chin.

“I love you too.” d’Artagnan said, the terror he had been feeling only ten minutes earlier lifted from his shoulders a great deal.

Porthos’ smile was like the sun, and d’Artagnan shifted into a more comfortable position, pressed along Porthos’ side with his head on Porthos’ shoulder.

They stayed in each other’s arms for a long time, before Porthos attempted to extract himself, and d’Artagnan felt that rumble of fear building again in his stomach. “Where are you going?”

Porthos kissed his head and pushed him gently back down into the warmth of the blankets. “I’m just going to get us something to eat. You haven’t eaten all day.”

Porthos. Always the caretaker, even if Aramis did more oft than not assume the role of the loudest mother hen. “Don’t be long?” d’Artagnan’s order turned into an insecure question. Normally he hated feeling scared, but he was too exhausted to care at that moment.

“I’ll be right back.” Porthos promised, before disappearing out through the curtains.

d’Artagnan took the opportunity to remove the coat, which _was_ pretty ghastly, and moved himself into the area that Porthos had just vacated. It was warm in the room, so d’Artagnan sprawled himself out on top of the blankets, awaiting Porthos’ return, and trying to keep his mind away from thoughts of the Judge.

When Porthos returned with a bowl of grapes and some bread, cheese and wine, d’Artagnan realised just how hungry he was. He always refused food at Constance’s in case Monsieur Bonacieux noticed food was missing when he returned. Porthos laughed when d’Artagnan held out eager hands, and he passed him the bowl of grapes.

“I wanted you, not the bowl.” d’Artagnan pouted, which made Porthos laugh harder. The older man put the food and wine on the edge of the bedding, before sitting beside d’Artagnan. He plumped up some of the pillows and reclined back on them, and d’Artagnan resumed his position on his side, his front pressed along Porthos’ solid figure. d’Artagnan then propped himself up on an arm, balanced the bowl of grapes’ on Porthos’ stomach and took a grape with his free hand. Porthos raised an eyebrow at him, until said grape was being hovered over his lips, and Porthos caught on.

“Now this kind of service I could get used to.” Porthos grinned, taking the grape from d’Artagnan’s fingers with his teeth.

d’Artagnan smiled back at him and helped himself to a grape, before plucking another one to feed to Porthos. This back and forth continued for some time, with snatches of light conversation in between. Porthos must have gathered that d’Artagnan did not want to bring up Richelieu again, at least not until Athos and Aramis arrived back, so kept the topics lighthearted, which d’Artagnan was grateful for. He was always impressed by how well Porthos could read people and their moods. A lifetime surrounded by thieves and vagabonds had clearly taught him well. It was just a shame that Porthos’ unique gift had origins in his fight for survival as a child, and not in some happier circumstance.

d’Artagnan put a grape between his teeth thoughtfully, before realising it had been Porthos’ turn to have one. So, he leant forward and let a smirking Porthos bite the other half.

“Well, if I had known that this was what I’d be missing I would have come back much sooner.” A voice drawled from the entrance way.

Porthos and d’Artagnan looked over to find both Aramis and Athos leaning against the wall watching them, hips cocked against the stone and arms crossed in an identical manner.

d’Artagnan smiled at them. “Well, you are very welcome to join us.”

“I would not say no.” Athos’s lips quirked into a smile as Aramis wasted no time in collapsing down on the blankets with them. Athos followed slightly more gracefully.

“That was a very welcome sight to arrive home to.” Aramis said, kissing d’Artagnan softly before moving over to Porthos.

d’Artagnan watched Porthos smile against Aramis lips, hands moving up to thread through his unruly waves.

“Are you ok?” Athos’ voice was close and concerned in d’Artagnan’s ear.

Trust Athos to notice something was wrong with him even after Porthos had made him feel better. Athos had a way of reading him that was unnerving sometimes, yet it was also comforting to know how much Athos cared for him. d’Artagnan glanced at him, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Porthos and Aramis broke apart at his words, Aramis looking curious, and Porthos watching d’Artagnan; waiting to see whether d’Artagnan was going to elaborate or not.

d’Artagnan shook his head. “I’m fine.” He promised, “I don’t want to talk about it now. Later.” He didn’t want to dampen the charged mood of the room. He needed his lovers close to him. He needed them to help him forget his own name, and forget Richelieu’s eyes; still an icy brand in his chest. He would talk to them about it later, when he felt brave enough to face it again.

His decision was final, and the other three appeared to realise this, as Athos moved in front of him and said “Ok.”  
Out of all of them, Athos most knew what it was like to need distraction when something was wrong, and confirming to d’Artagnan once again that he could read him like an open book. “Ok.” He repeated, tracing careful fingers along d’Artagnan’s jawline to the back of his neck.

d’Artagnan eagerly surged forward to kiss him.

Each of his lovers kissed differently, though each approach was as delicious as the next. d’Artagnan knew that he kissed with eager, youthful hunger. When Porthos kissed them, it was like he kissed with his whole body, encompassing and absorbing. Aramis flitted between the extremes of slow, seductive passion, or hot, desperate lust. Athos was, surprisingly, the most teasing; giving and taking at unpredictable intervals, always making them want more, but making them wait for it before pushing further. Each combination of these kisses held a charged and delicious outcome.

d’Artagnan’s eagerness was tamed by Athos’ careful guidance, yet teasing him and making him even keener in the process. If d’Artagnan’s attention wasn’t wholly concentrated on being driven mad by Athos, he knew that Aramis and Porthos would be locked in one of their deliberately slow, devouring kisses.

d’Artagnan moaned quietly when Athos rewarded his patience with teeth in his lower lip, his hand clenching in d’Artagnan’s hair to tip his head back and deepen the kiss more thoroughly. d’Artagnan’s hands had found their way to Athos’ shirt, and through to chilled bare skin, where he laid his palms out flat.

It was Athos who eventually pulled away, drawing in a breath and resting his forehead to d’Artagnan’s, panting slightly and meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes with the light blue of his own. d’Artagnan smoothed his hands over Athos’ ribs, and Athos bit his lip, fingers clenching in d’Artagnan’s hair again. d’Artagnan laughed lightly at Athos’ reaction. He had always been mightily amused by the knowledge that the noble soldier was ticklish. Their stare, which had just begun to wander back to each other’s lips again, was interrupted by Porthos growling “Finally we’ll be able to get you out of this damned shirt.”

d’Artagnan lifted his head from Athos’ to look over his shoulder at Porthos and Aramis. Aramis had crawled his way into Porthos’ lap, straddling him and pressed against him with every possible inch of his body. But now Porthos was attempting to pull Aramis back so he could divest him of the shirt.

“Oh, please do get rid of that awful shirt.” Athos agreed.

“Why do you all hate it so much?” Aramis whined playfully, his lips already slightly darker and swollen from kissing Porthos, his cheeks reddened by the rub of beard and stubble.

“Because it should not count as a shirt. And it’s distracting.” d’Artagnan offered, feeling Athos’ huff of laughter brush his cheek, the hand that had been in his hair was now resting at the back of his neck, Athos’ thumb grazing back and forth over his pulse point.

“You heard the lad.” Porthos urged, hands moving to Aramis’ shoulders to tug the shirt off them.

“Well, it appears that the decision is unanimous.” Aramis shrugged, before the shirt was whipped off from over his head. He then looked across at Athos and d’Artagnan. “Anyone else going to join me?”

d’Artagnan’s hands flew to the hem of his own shirt, before Athos caught them “Allow me.” his tone both gentlemanly and liquidly brooking no argument. d’Artagnan let Athos manhandle him out of his shirt, before finding Aramis still watching him, eyes trailing down his bared chest.

Aramis reached out a hand to them as Porthos’ lips travelled to his collarbone. Porthos’ hands were large where they came to rest on Aramis’ waist. “You two are too far away.” He complained, his words breaking slightly in the middle when Porthos started nibbling at his skin.

d’Artagnan did not need to be told twice, moving himself as close to Aramis and Porthos as possible, knowing Athos was not too far behind.

Aramis pushed back from Porthos, ordering “Off.”

Porthos laughed and leant back to remove his own clothing.

“So bossy to your King, Aramis.” d’Artagnan teased, watching as Athos moved to Porthos’ side to press a kiss to Porthos’ shoulder the moment it was bare.

“I don’t know why you let him get away with it.” Athos murmured into Porthos’ ear.

Porthos turned his head to kiss Athos, whilst Aramis snorted, “Because he is ours, dear Athos. We could get away with murder. If you decided to take his place in the Court, he wouldn’t even fight you over it. Isn’t that right, Sire?”

Porthos groaned in annoyance and pushed Aramis backwards of his lap without even breaking from kissing Athos. Porthos may have been the Court’s most effective and respected ruler, but he despised being considered ‘above’ other people. After his life in the Court and having always been looked down on as a lesser being, he disliked being in a position where it looked like he was doing the same to others. He only accepted the title ‘King of the Court’ because others called him it and it gave him the authority that was needed when Court disputes went awry. He rarely referred to himself as a King.

d’Artagnan laughed as Aramis pushed himself back up, hair askew. “My apologies.”

“Hmm.” Porthos hummed with a raised eyebrow, finally pulling away from Athos to level Aramis with a look.

Aramis shrugged and the next thing d’Artagnan knew, he had been snagged around the waist and Aramis was pushing him gently onto his back, before lowering himself down to hover over him. d’Artagnan looked up into warm, dark brown eyes and he pushed himself up to meet Aramis’ lips. “You danced so well today, my star.” Aramis’ words were like honey, mouthed over d’Artagnan’s lips. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

d’Artagnan reached up to drag his fingers down Aramis’ back, smirking when Aramis’ eyes fluttered shut. “You have a similar effect on me.” d’Artagnan told him.

As Aramis began to trace his lips over his neck, d’Artagnan turned his head to glance over at Porthos and Athos. The pair had been busy, and now were both in equal states of undress. The way the two of them moved together and acted with each other was something that was deep rooted in their long relationship with each other. Athos was comfortable with Porthos like no-one else, and Porthos could read Athos better than he or Aramis could. Despite Athos and Porthos being somewhat busy, he knew that they kept looking over at him and Aramis, just as he was doing to them.

“Am I boring you?” Aramis asked into his skin with a breathy laugh.

“I think that is the last word that could ever be used to describe you, Aramis.” Athos commented.

d’Artagnan turned back to Aramis, holding him tighter. “Never.” He promised, scraping his teeth along Aramis’ jaw as his hands worked on the green scarf keeping Aramis’ trousers up. The moment he could get his hand into them, d’Artagnan watched eagerly for the moment Aramis’ eyes darkened and his mouth dropped open slightly.

“You two make for a pretty spectacular sight.” Porthos’ words had d’Artagnan shuddering and Aramis’ head dropping to thud lightly against d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Speak for yourselves.” d’Artagnan said, fixing his eyes on Porthos, whose muscles were rippling under dark skin as he touched Athos’ paler, leaner body.

“So,” Aramis managed to force out whilst simultaneously biting his lip, as d'Artagnan squeezed his hand tighter around him and dragged his thumb in the way he knew made Aramis melt, “How is this particular evening going to play out, gentlemen?”

d’Artagnan couldn’t help the moan that escaped him at Porthos' grin, which was full of promise, “I have a few ideas.”

Which was how a little later on, d’Artagnan found himself watching Aramis swallow the whole of Porthos’ length, in ‘apology for the ‘Sire’ thing’. It was quite a sight to see, and d’Artagnan was close enough to touch them, so had a pretty good view. Porthos’ eyes were half closed and liquid black as he watched Aramis, his hand tangled in Aramis’ hair as Aramis hummed happily, knowing how much his tongue and his technique could drive them mad. d’Artagnan was slightly distracted himself however, as he felt Athos slowly push into him, having worked him carefully open with clever fingers. d’Artagnan’s groan was punched out of him, and Athos’ hand found and gripped his own.

“Ok?” Athos asked. d’Artagnan wasn’t sure if Athos’ question was still burdened with his earlier concerns for what d’Artagnan hadn’t told him and Aramis, but he decided to ignore it for now.

“More than fine.” d’Artagnan replied. It always, always felt good when he was with Athos, Porthos and Aramis. He pushed back as Athos moved forward, until Athos was fully inside him. It was bliss when Athos finally started to move. d’Artagnan moved himself until he could reach Porthos, shivering hitching breaths over the other man’s skin. He felt lips meet his temple. Here, surrounded in every way by his three most important people in the world, it felt like home. And he felt safe.

*

Later, when they lay sprawled out side by side with each other, d’Artagnan finally spoke into the darkness, “Richelieu saw me earlier. He didn’t place me but it made him pause.” He didn’t have to say anything else. His voice betrayed that earlier fear he’d felt.

Aramis and Athos didn’t say anything, either, knowing that that was not what he needed, and that he would tell them more when the day was light again. He was wrapped up more tightly in strong arms, and two different hands found his own.

* * *

 

**2 December 1481**

 

“And, now, ladies and gentlemen. Your King will throw a dagger at this piece of wood on my head and let us hope that he does not miss.”

“What happened to the fruit?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos looked to where d’Artagnan stood beside him. The young man was grinning as he addressed Athos, but his eyes were riveted to Aramis on the stage of the Court, where they were hosting their monthly night of Cour des Miracles entertainment.

“Aramis didn’t like getting sticky.” Athos commented, awaiting d’Artagnan’s inevitably amused reaction.

“Well that’s news to me.” d’Artagnan quipped immediately.

Aramis and Porthos had first perfected this trick whilst drunk on Porthos’ birthday four years ago, and had used various pieces of fruit. They had done it every year since, but now they were performing it for the first time for a true crowd. Athos and d’Artagnan were standing amongst the gathered folk of the Court, watching Aramis and Porthos own the stage, their audience hanging on every moment. Aramis and Porthos were two of the finest entertainers the Court possessed. And Aramis’ dangerous tricks were always popular within the Court  residents.

“I think there was also the argument around destroying decent food for the sake of entertainment.” Athos remarked.

“Well I often worry about Aramis’ head being destroyed for the sake of entertainment.”

“He seems happy enough to do it.”

“He likes the danger too much. And he clearly trusts Porthos with this, because I couldn’t imagine Aramis putting the fate of his handsome face in anyone else’s hands.”

Athos huffed a laugh in agreement. “Porthos has a perfect aim. He won’t miss.”

“I know.” d’Artagnan replied, but even as Aramis sat the specially carved piece of wood on his head and Porthos took his position; eyes intent and focused on the wood above Aramis, stance poised and knife held loosely between sure fingers, Athos felt d’Artagnan’s arm press against his as the younger man moved closer to him. d'Artagnan always worried something would go wrong one day, despite Aramis having swallowed blades and fire and dodged bullets and knives for years. Aramis appeared as calm as a summer breeze, though his eyes reflected his intense trust in Porthos.

Porthos waited a couple of seconds, before suddenly taking a step forward whilst sending the knife spinning through the air. Athos closed his eyes when he heard the crack, swearing that one day one of his lovers was going to give him a heart attack and send him to an earlier grave than wine could provide. He cracked an eye back open and, of course, saw Aramis perfectly safe and well; the knife embedded in the wood that had been knocked from his head. The crowd burst into applause and cheers and Athos and d’Artagnan released identical long, held breaths.

Aramis approached Porthos and took his hand as they bowed.

“Thank you to the King for his flawless precision. My face, in particular, is most grateful.” Aramis declared, winking at the audience.

Flea catcalled something and Aramis rolled his eyes. “You flatter me, Madame.” He replied.

“Right,” Porthos clapped his hands together as he addressed the crowd, “I think that was all for the evening unless anyone wishes to perform anything else? We now have a full schedule for the Feast of Fools, but if anyone thinks that they…”

“Actually.” Aramis piped up, “I have something else that I wish to show you all.”

Porthos’ eyes found Athos’ in the crowd immediately. Athos knew that look. It was the look Porthos always got when he thought Aramis might take something too far; take too much of a risk. But the crowd were chanting and Porthos gave in. “Go ahead, Aramis.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have been very kind to me this evening…” Aramis began his spiel. “So I thought I would share with you something that I hope to debut at the Feast of Fools…”

“I want to perform at the Festival.” d’Artagnan piped up quietly beside him, only just loud enough for Athos to hear him.

Athos turned to him, unable to mask his surprise. “What?”

“I want to dance and perform at the Feast of Fools.” d’Artagnan repeated.

“But…” Athos started. Athos and d’Artagnan had always stayed out of the public eye as best they could at the Feast, for fear of Richelieu, who was often in attendance. Aramis performed, but was not allowed to perform his ‘dark magic’ acts when Richelieu or guards were in attendance. “Judge Richelieu is going to be there this year acting as the public official.”

d’Artagnan met Athos’ eyes defiantly. “I know. But after what happened this summer, and he didn’t recognise me, I thought that I would be safe to. I look a lot different to when I was fifteen.”

“But it was not just about him recognising you.” Athos pushed gently, eyes intent on d’Artagnan’s face. d’Artagnan had also not previously performed because he had been terrified of actually seeing Richelieu up close.

But then, Athos had often seen d’Artagnan as they hid away at the Feast, enviously watching the performers, always seeming so frustrated that he wasn’t able to join in. He knew d’Artagnan had wanted to headline the Feast of Fools for several years now; and because d’Artagnan was one of the best dancers the Court had he was pretty much guaranteed a top spot, but Athos had never thought there would be a time where d’Artagnan would decide to take the risk of confronting Richelieu. Apparently he was wrong.

“No.” d’Artagnan agreed, “But I want to face my fears. And I really, really want to perform this year. I know I could do well. If that means seeing Richelieu, then I’ll just have to be brave.”

Athos could hear the longing and determination in d’Artagnan’s voice. He could tell how much d’Artagnan wanted this. Despite the crowd around them, Athos let his fingers brush and briefly tangle with d’Artagnan’s. “Have you spoken to Porthos about it?”

“I was going to bring it up with him tomorrow.”

Athos’ heart was speeding up in chest and he wasn’t sure why. Fear and apprehension on d’Artagnan’s behalf, he decided. “Ok well we…”

Suddenly there was a huge gasp from around them and someone screamed, and Athos and d’Artagnan whipped around to look back to the stage that they had tuned out of for their conversation.

Athos’ heart wasn’t speeding anymore. He was pretty positive it had stopped.

“What the…” He heard d’Artagnan say next to him.

Aramis was surrounded by flames. They did not even appear to be natural flames, glowing in blues and purples. The fire was spinning around him and it took Athos a moment to realise that Aramis was spinning two lit batons about him with lightning speed. Athos looked to Porthos to see him standing tensely at the corner of the stage, clearly getting ready to leap in should it get out of hand.

Aramis then spun on the spot, the fire trailing a moment after, before he raised both batons and spat at them, and the coloured flames roared up toward the stone sky of the Court. And then Aramis spun once more and in a whoosh of blue and purple, Aramis and his fire were gone.

“What?” Athos found himself saying out loud, as d’Artagnan clasped his wrist. Aramis wasn’t on the stage anymore. He had completely and utterly vanished.

The crowd went deathly quiet.

Porthos lurched forward into the centre of the stage that Aramis had occupied only moments before.

And then, suddenly, “Over here!”

The crowd turned as one to see Aramis standing behind them all, grinning smugly from ear to ear. And then he took a bow.

The crowd erupted.

Aramis’ eyes sought out Athos and d’Artagnan in the crowd and winked, before looking up to Porthos on the stage, “What do you think, Porthos? Do you think the Parisians will enjoy my performance?”

Porthos just stood there and Athos could read his feelings as clear as day, because Athos felt exactly the same way. Aramis’ whole performance screamed of witchcraft and he would be insane to dare perform that at the Feast. There was no way Porthos would happily allow it and Athos neither, but Aramis did not often heed good advice. And on top of that there was d’Artagnan’s new revelation, which Athos doubted he would back down from now. Athos had no idea what Porthos would make of it on addition to Aramis’ recklessness.

Aramis and d’Artagnan performing at the Feast of Fools;

It was going to be a nightmare.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So seen as though we had Athos and Porthos POV for Chapters 1 & 2, and d'Art ruled Chapter 3, I thought it was high time I added in some Aramis POV with bonus!Treville for Chapter 4. Hope you enjoy.

**4 January 1482**

 

Aramis never intentionally set out to cause mischief. It just followed him around some of the time. A lot of the time. More often than not.

The trouble that trailed in his wake was something he had grown to deal with, having been burdened with it his whole life. It was something that Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan still appeared to be getting used to. Aramis sometimes feared that his three considered his penchant for risk tiresome and that they would one day decide that he was too much hassle to concern themselves over anymore. There had been a fallout after Aramis had pulled his stunt at the Court entertainments the month before, and despite him telling the others that if they were so strongly against it he wouldn’t perform it, he knew they didn’t quite believe him. He could see it in their eyes. In the way that, only two days before the Feast of Fools, Athos had turned even quieter than usual with a solemn worry.

Athos hadn’t spoken a word to Aramis since they had left the Court earlier that morning.

“I hope it’s d’Artagnan you are worried about and not me.” Aramis commented as they walked side by side in silence down a busy street, already hustling with preparation for the Festival, which was the people of Paris’ favourite and most anticipated event.

Athos didn’t say anything for a moment, before, “I am worried for the both of you.”

“And why not Porthos?” Aramis asked. “He practically carries the whole event. He will be in Richelieu and his soldiers’ sights all day, you know he will.”

Athos sighed, “Yes, I know he will.”

Aramis understood then, that Athos was concerned for all three of them. Because Athos was the only one that could not perform, and hence would be watching from the side-lines as Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan took centre stage, and the attention that went with it.

“You shouldn’t worry.” Aramis gave Athos a nudge, relieved to finally have engaged the man in conversation. “Porthos is untouchable during the Festival.”

The people of Paris knew Porthos now as a key figure in the Festival. They recognised him by sight. But so did Richelieu and his men. However, if anyone tried to arrest Porthos or any of the gypsies without cause during the Festival, there would be uproar and resistance from the people and that was something Richelieu would want to avoid. Porthos was virtually immune from arrest during that day. Athos, however, as a deserter and traitorous soldier, could and would be arrested on sight, which is why he spent every Festival wearing a mask and keeping to the crowds.

“But you and d’Artagnan are not.” Athos countered. “If Richelieu should recognise d’Artagnan or if you…”

“If I what?” Aramis cut in, unable to stop his defensiveness.

“If you use your blasted powders…”

Aramis let out a long sound of frustration, clutching at his hair, “I have performed at the Festival for years without issue.”

“But you have never done any act like you intend to do this year.”

“Inten _ded._ Past tense. You have made it clear how much the idea displeases you. How many times do I have to tell you that I…”

 “That is the problem.” Athos interrupted. “You tell us you won’t but you do not promise it. You do not swear it. You brush over it like you do every time that you want to appease us before going right ahead and doing what you were going to do anyway.”

Aramis almost stopped walking in his surprise at the outburst. “You really think I am lying to you?”

He watched Athos level him with a stare that was both accusatory and resigned, “Aren’t you?”

“I am not going to dignify that question with an answer.”

Athos looked slightly disappointed, and that damn resignation was still there. “No, I thought you wouldn’t.”

Aramis growled under his breath before swinging himself round to face Athos, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Athos’ blue eyes looked, unwavering, into his own. “What do I have to do to make you see that I am not lying to you?” Aramis asked.

“This time.” Athos added.

“Lying to you _this time_.” Aramis corrected with a grimace.

Athos regarded him steadily for a moment, which made Aramis feel despicable for even having made Athos look at him so judgingly, as it always did.

Eventually, Athos just said, “We had best go and find Old Serge.”

Aramis deflated a little bit under Athos' inability to even be able to imagine Aramis not causing trouble, and dejectedly stepped aside to let Athos lead the way to where they had heard Serge had been put in the stocks.

As they neared the area of the East stocks and the streets emptied somewhat, Aramis was startled from his unhappy thoughts when Athos suddenly reached out and squeezed his hand. “I love you,” Athos said eventually, “But you are a menace.”

Aramis sent him a quick smile, not feeling completely reassured of Athos’ faith in him, but comforted by the fact that Athos clearly had not liked seeing Aramis so mopey and quiet. They rounded the corner and the moment that Aramis locked eyes on the stocks, and Serge who was grumpily stuck in them, he decided that he would leave their problems for now, but would try to reconcile them later. 

“Serge, Serge, Serge,” He tutted as they reached the platform. “What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“I didn’t even do anything.” The old man grumbled.

“Uh-huh.” Athos hummed disbelievingly.

“Want Athos to set you free, dear Serge?”

Old Serge grumbled under his breath before asking, “What will it cost me?”

“Nothing. It is but a kind gesture from us to you.”

Serge raised his head as best he could and eyed Aramis with suspicion from under his heavy grey brows, before gesturing with his hands, as he was unable to shrug, “Alright, yes. I would rather get out of here sooner than later.”

“Good choice. Athos…” Aramis stood aside to let Athos, who, even as an ex-nobleman, was miraculously the best of all of them at picking locks - which amused Aramis greatly – get to work on the big padlock that was holding the stocks together.

Aramis watched Athos work for a moment before spotting a horse tethered across the street and standing alone, and wandering over to investigate it. “So Serge,” Aramis asked over his shoulder, “Are you going to divulge what you actually did, or?”

“Mind your own.” was the reply.

Aramis laughed, “If you insist.” He reached the horse, which was a majestic and powerful beast, and looked completely out of place in the dirty cobbled street. He ran a hand down its nose, soothing it with soft words, before eyeing the saddlebag on its right side. Just as his hand went to enter it, someone appeared at his shoulder and grabbed his arm.

“I don’t think so.” A gruff voice said in his ear.

Aramis’ head shot up and he found himself staring into stern, familiar eyes that he hadn’t seen in quite some time. “Treville?”

“Hello Aramis.” Treville then turned his attention toward Athos, “Hello Athos.”

Treville seemed completely disinterested in the fact that Athos was springing Serge from the stocks, and Athos seemed completely comfortable with continuing in Treville’s presence.

“Get your hand away from my coin, please.” Treville said, eyes back on Aramis again.

Aramis obeyed, pulling his hand away from the saddlebag. “Sorry.”

Treville hummed indifferently, before watching Athos finally release Serge, send the old man on his way and walk over to them. “Treville.” Athos greeted, clasping the other man’s hand. “It is good to see you. It has been a long time.”

Treville had left Paris several years before, called up to go and fight in battles elsewhere. It had saddened the four of them to see him go, but Athos the most, who had served as a soldier under Treville’s command.

"Are you back for good?" Aramis asked.

“Richelieu has called me back for some reason. He said he had greater need of me here. So I suppose for the foreseeable future I am.”

“Well, he is still fighting his own, more important war against us.” Athos deadpanned.

Treville nodded, looking severe, “I am afraid that that is the cause for my return, yes. But still, I would rather be here than where I was.”

“I heard you have gained much respect as Captain whilst fighting.” Athos sounded unsurprised and proud by this fact.

“For all the respect I gained there, it does not remedy the losses I have suffered.” Treville’s eyes ghosted over with memories of far away, before he appeared to right himself again. “It is good to be back. And to see you all alive and well. Though…” Aramis found himself fixed by Treville’s shrewd stare, “If this is how lax you have become over your technique of theft, I am surprised you have lasted this long.”

“I was just curious.” Aramis countered.

“Curiosity can get you killed.” Athos’ reminder harkened back to their earlier arguments, and Aramis sent him a glare.

“How is young d’Artagnan?” Treville asked. The Captain had been especially fond of d’Artagnan since he had rescued him the night d’Artagnan’s father had been killed by Richelieu.

“Very well.” Aramis said. “He has grown into a dashing, talented young man. And taller than we are, now, if you can believe it.”

d’Artagnan had been very amused the day that he realised he had grown taller than Aramis and Athos. Aramis and Athos had not.

“And he is happy.” Athos added.

“And Porthos?”

“The same as ever.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Both of them will be performing at the Festival.”

“Even d’Artagnan?” Treville sounded surprised. “Well no doubt I will see them there.”

“You are on duty?”

“As Richelieu’s right hand, apparently.” Treville did not sound pleased about the fact. “I am only thankful it is more for his protection and crowd control than making direct arrests. It is the one day where he really cannot touch any of you. Well, except you, Athos.”

“What did I tell you?” Aramis turned to Athos triumphantly. “We three will be fine; it is you who will need to be most careful.”

“Not if you make a scene and attract Richelieu’s attention.” Athos grumbled.

Aramis opened his mouth to argue before Treville beat him to it. “You both had best be going before the soldiers return and find their man no longer in the stocks.”

“You are quite right.” Athos said, seemingly eager to avoid arguing with Aramis again, despite having thrown the first barb. “Come along, Aramis. It is good to see you, alive and well, Treville.”

“And you. Oh and Aramis, hands out of people’s pockets, yes?” Treville called after them. “And I hope that I do not see you at the Festival, Athos. Do not make me have to arrest you.”

“There will be no reason to.” Athos promised, as Aramis followed him back down the street away from Treville and the stocks.

On the way home, Athos stopped so abruptly in the middle of the street that Aramis walked straight in to him. “Athos, what is it?” He asked in confusion.

Athos seemed to pay his question no heed, his attention instead fixed down a side-street that they had been passing. Aramis followed his line of sight but saw no one down the deserted street. “Athos?”

“I thought I saw something. Someone.”

Aramis looked at Athos’ face, which was significantly paler than it had been and his eyes had taken on a similar glaze that Treville’s had not long before. Caught in the past.

“But I can’t have done.” Athos suddenly said, snapping out of it and shaking his head. “It would be impossible.”

Aramis did not argue or bring it up further as Athos began to walk again as though nothing had happened. Athos was secretive about his past. Just as Aramis, d’Artagnan and Porthos were, to a lesser extent. There were things Porthos would not speak of from his years growing up in the Court. And for all Aramis told his embellished tales of his adventurous life, he actually knew what it meant to keep some secrets in the dark, to disguise them behind stories and make sure that they stayed there.

*

That evening Aramis waited patiently in the room he shared with Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan for his lovers to come to bed.  He was determined to face them once and for all about their reservations regarding their trust in his ability to control his showy performances. When d’Artagnan, the last to arrive, finally appeared, Aramis stood up and faced them all.

“I want to speak to you all, and I want you to hear me out. Ok?”

Athos watched him with that same assessing gaze as before, Porthos seemed to be pretending that he did not know what this was going to be about, and d’Artagnan was the only one who looked genuinely confused.

“Alright, Aramis.” d’Artagnan answered for the three of them.

Aramis took a breath. “I know you all think that I have been lying to you and intend to perform some kind of ‘witchcraft’ stunt at the Festival.”

“Aramis, we just…”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Aramis halted Porthos’ protest. “d’Artagnan said you would listen.”

Porthos relented immediately, watching Aramis with interest now.

“I know that the only reason you are all angry with me is because you want to protect me. You are afraid that I will one day be accused of witchcraft. I know that is why you are wary of my performances and are scared that I am going to take it too far at the Festival. I know those things. And I love you for them. But what I do not understand is why you think I would still risk being accused of witchcraft, even after knowing why you worry? Why you think I would still do it if it meant scaring and losing the three of you. Do you really think so little of me?”

“Aramis.” Porthos interrupted again, sounding horrified. “Of course not.” He started getting up from where he, Athos and d’Artagnan were sitting on the bedding.

“Then why are you all still worrying about my performances at the Festival? I am only going to dance and fire-eat. Like I have done for all the previous Festivals. Nothing with powders, nothing too life-threatening and unexplainable…”

Aramis stalled when Porthos gently took hold of his upper arms, looking him in the eye with such affection that Aramis’ determination nearly petered out.

“But you also do not like being told what not to do.” Porthos reminded him fondly. It was nice to be looked at like that again. There had been too many occasions in the last month where Aramis had caught Porthos watching him with such sad concern, like Porthos had come to the realisation that Aramis could, in fact, be killed for witchcraft with just cause, and that the thought was terrifying him.

It had been as if d’Artagnan, Athos and Porthos had only truly realised that night a month ago what trickery and ‘magic’ Aramis was really capable of. And Aramis was too stubborn to tell them that he had not even shown them half of what he could do. What Aramis had been taught in his youth would be enough to make even members of the Court suspicious and wary of him. It would potentially scare Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan away. They knew his grandmother had taught him some black magic when he was young, but not the extent that she had. Which is why he had kept the extent of his knowledge to himself and only performed mild illusion in the first place.

“That is true.” Aramis admitted. If someone told him not to do something, chances were it would entice him more. He always wanted what he wasn’t allowed. But not where Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan were concerned. “But not when it is you three. I listen to you. I do.”

Porthos pressed a kiss to his cheek and Aramis let out a sigh of relief into Porthos’ hair. He wrapped his fingers in Porthos’ shirt. “You believe me?”

“If you say you won’t, then you won’t.” Porthos’ voice was warm and liquid in his ear, as thumbs pressed supportively against his hipbones. “I trust you. And I love you.”

Aramis pushed back slightly to give Porthos a smile, before his eyes fell to Athos. “Athos, please.” Aramis pleaded. “I promise. Ok? I promise and swear that I will not disobey you all. I will not perform anything that you are not aware of or could get me in trouble.”

Athos was on his feet immediately, coming to Aramis’ side. “Aramis,” He said, and by the tone of his voice Aramis knew he believed him now. “I am sorry that we have made you feel like we did not have faith in you and I am sorry about what I said earlier today. I was worried for you. We all were. We just do not want to lose you.”

“And you won’t.” Aramis insisted, eyes determined and never leaving Athos’. “I promise, you won’t.”

Aramis was surprised when suddenly it wasn’t Porthos holding onto him anymore, but Athos, and that Athos had pushed him back against the wall, a thigh pushed up between Aramis' own. Aramis let out a moan as Athos’ lips met his neck. “I believe you.” Athos spoke out when his lips left Aramis’ skin.

“But,” Aramis started, and suddenly Athos’ mouth was no longer on him and the pressure on his groin was gone and Aramis hated himself for opening his mouth and making Athos move away and watch him again with an unimpressed raised eyebrow.

“But.” Athos repeated, sounding exasperated.

“But do you allow me to do what I have to if it ever meant keeping the three of you safe? You worry so much about me, but I am the same about you. If you were ever in a situation where my magic could get you out of it and there was no other choice, you would let me, wouldn’t you?”

A hand descended on his neck and Porthos’ forehead met his own. “If that moment ever did come, God forbid, then you would know what to do. And I would let you.”

“Thank you.” Aramis said, pressing a kiss to Porthos’ lips.

“We have a reason to be concerned though, right?” d’Artagnan finally piped up. “I mean, I know you have never said it, but you are practically a witch, aren’t you?”

Aramis paused, his eyes met Porthos first, because the taller man was standing right in front of him, and Porthos had this look in his eye that made Aramis realise that Porthos had probably assumed as much for some time. Athos, however, when Aramis glanced over at him, looked like he had only just registered that Aramis actually _being_ a witch was a possible thing.

Aramis looked at d’Artagnan last. “I might be.” He finally decided to respond. It did not matter either way, and as he had previously agreed with himself; it was better that they never knew the full story anyway.

“That is so amazing.” d’Artagnan said, without hesitation. There was only awe in his face and Aramis laughed and rolled his eyes.

The next thing he knew, Aramis had been manhandled onto his back on the bed.

“Nine years.” Athos was saying as he pressed Aramis down and scraped his teeth down Aramis’ neck. “Nine years I have known you and still I do not know a thing about you.”

“Says you.” Aramis scoffed, unable to stop himself thinking of the moment earlier in the day where Athos had clearly thought he had seen someone from his past. But the thought quickly slipped away again from the distraction of Athos’ mouth and the way that d’Artagnan and Porthos were helping to remove Aramis’ clothes. “Besides, you know the best of me.” He said eventually. “That is all you need to know.”

“Well, likewise.” Athos said, as decisively as he had before when he had said that it would have been ‘impossible’ to have seen the person he thought he had. Athos appeared not to be overanalysing his response like Aramis was, however, instead pulling Aramis up so that Porthos could fully remove Aramis’ shirt.

Aramis shivered under the joint attentions of his lovers and groaned when Athos began to work his way down his chest toward where his trousers had been pulled down.

“It's what we know of each other now that counts.” d’Artagnan said, his fingers trailing over Aramis’ face, and scraping gently through his beard, “The past doesn’t matter. Now does.”

“Yes.” Aramis agreed, eyes clenching shut as Athos took his cock first in his hand and then in his mouth. “Now matters. Now matters very much.” Just as his hand moved to tangle in Athos’ hair, Aramis found his hands being pulled back up and pressed down on either side of his head by Porthos.

Aramis cracked his eyes open to gaze up at Porthos’ smirking face, “You said that you are going to obey us, yes?” Porthos asked.

“Oh God, yes.” Aramis agreed, nodding frantically and pushing his hips up towards the delicious heat of Athos’ mouth before slender hands pushed them back down.

“Blasphemy, Aramis. I am surprised at you.” d’Artagnan tutted as he licked over Aramis’ nipple and certainly did not help matters. It was a tease that d’Artagnan often made when Aramis used the Lord’s name in vain during sex, but Aramis never really cared much about it at the time.

“So you are going to do what we say?” Porthos’ voice was honey and his hands squeezed Aramis’ a little tighter.

If that was the game they were playing, Aramis was very, very much on board with it. “I will. I will. I’m going to be so, so good for you.”

There were collective sounds made that confirmed that Aramis had said the right thing and he grinned, pleased with himself, until Athos made a sound around Aramis’ cock that had _him_ groaning as well. “Athos, ahh.” He whined out through gritted teeth, thumping his head back into the pillows.

“I am going to let your hands go now,” Porthos said, “Are you going to be good and keep them there?”

Aramis nodded, looking down to where Athos was moving, his lips stretched deliciously and his sculpted cheeks hollowed out. If it meant Athos was going to keep doing what he was doing, and keep d’Artagnan worshipping the rest of him with his tongue and his fingers then Aramis was not going to move a muscle.

Seemingly satisfied, Porthos let go. And when d’Artagnan’s lips suddenly stuttered in their journey across Aramis’ chest Aramis smirked to himself, knowing what Porthos wanted to let him go for. He did not dare to look at Porthos and d’Artagnan though, or down again at Athos, because he was close enough to the edge as it was, and the sight of any of his lovers at that moment would end the feeling too soon.

Eventually though, Aramis gave a series of breathy, hitching noises as a warning to Athos, before arching up and climaxing. He whimpered rather pathetically when he felt Athos swallow and then lick him clean; clinical and precise, like everything Athos did. When Aramis finally managed to pry his eyes open again, he found Porthos and d’Artagnan wrapped up in each other, but both were staring at him hungrily.

“Wha?” Aramis managed, sounding the epitome of collected. He was clenching and unclenching his fingers where he was still struggling to keep them either side of his head.

“You look beautiful.” Porthos said, always so easy with his words and feelings. d’Artagnan’s eyes were almost black.

Aramis bit his lip and stretched out more languidly, basking in the praise. “You flatter.” He managed. “Am I allowed to move yet? I want to taste myself on Athos’ tongue.”

It had the desired effect. The three men groaned again and the next thing Aramis knew Athos’ mouth had descended on his own. Aramis licked into Athos’ mouth and Athos let him. Athos looked utterly debauched with reddened lips, his hair sticking up and his shirt hanging open. Aramis decided it was high time the shirt was gone altogether.

“So, seen as though I am being good for you this evening, to prove I can be trusted,” Aramis said, as he worked Athos' shirt off, “What would you like me to do next?”

“Well, seen as though you have been so good already,” Porthos paused, considering. “I suppose you can choose on how to proceed.”

Aramis had his answer immediately. “I want each of you to take me. Athos first, then d’Art, then you.”  He watched them all glance at each other heatedly. “Please.” He added.

“I think that can be arranged.” Porthos said. “You want me to prepare you?”

“I am in your capable hands.” Aramis replied.

Porthos relinquished his hold on d’Artagnan, who immediately pulled Athos off of Aramis and collapsed down on top of him, kissing him energetically as though chasing the last of Aramis' taste from him. d’Artagnan was always turned on when Athos went down on any of them.

Aramis turned his attention back to Porthos when he lay out over Aramis, bracing himself with one arm so that his full weight wasn’t on him, and Aramis automatically spread his legs wider to accommodate Porthos between them. When he felt Porthos’ slicked finger press at his entrance Aramis pulled Porthos down to him by looping an arm around his neck, his fingers winding into the curls on the back of Porthos’ head. “I was allowed to move right?” Aramis asked belatedly.

“I think I will let it go.” Porthos grinned, bright and happy.

“I am sorry I caused a scene before,” Aramis said quietly, knowing Athos and d’Artagnan were too preoccupied – the younger man straddling Athos’ lap – to hear him. Aramis always looked to Porthos when he was unsure. He always needed Porthos’ support, Porthos’ trust and Porthos’ love. “I just needed you to know that I would never…”

“Hey, hey. We know.” Porthos pressed a kiss to his lips as he pushed his first finger in. Aramis let out a stifled moan into Porthos’ mouth. “I know.” Porthos said. “And we are going to show you how much we care about you, ok? Why we worried the way we did.”

Aramis nodded, bringing his other hand to drag down Porthos’ chest as the finger inside him started to move and crook, causing Aramis to smash his face into the side of Porthos’ neck, making an indecipherable sound into Porthos’ skin.

“Ok?” Porthos asked softly. He was looking down at Aramis with so much love that it was making Aramis’ chest hurt.

“More than ok.” Aramis moaned, “Amazing. You are amazing. Keep going.”

By the time Porthos was onto his third finger, Aramis was unable to stop staring up at Porthos’ face. Porthos was such a handsome man. Aramis lifted fingers that were shaking with want up to trace lightly over the scar over Porthos’ eye. It was something Porthos had received during d’Artagnan’s first year in the Court, during a vicious fight that had begun over a theft and Court execution. The man that had given it to Porthos had not survived the night. The scar made Porthos’ face even more attractive, and his smile was forever as bright as a summer day. “You are quite stunning, my love.” Aramis told him.

Porthos gave him that blinding grin, before rewarding him with a kiss. “You ready for Athos?”

Aramis hummed a 'yes' in reply, “And I will have you later.”

“That you will.” Porthos laughed.

Athos set a slow pace, almost covering Aramis completely, his arms braced over Aramis as though he was trying to keep Aramis to himself. Aramis knew that Athos was feeling guilty for their various tense arguments of late, and Aramis knew he was as much to blame in his stubbornness as Athos had been. Aramis wrapped his legs tighter around Athos, holding him equally as close, and watched every movement of Athos’ face. Athos was always most expressive during sex, when he let go and was more relaxed with his feelings. It was something that made Athos impossibly more attractive. Plus, Athos always became heated under such close inspection.

“Aramis.” He warned, knowing that Aramis knew exactly what he was complaining about.

Aramis shrugged, “I cannot keep my eyes off you, love. It is your fault for being so damn pretty. What else am I to do?”

And Aramis kept his eyes on Athos until he came, mouth falling open and his eyes screwing shut as he gasped Aramis’ name through it. He kissed Aramis soundly as he pulled out, swallowing Aramis' moan at the sudden loss.

Luckily, it was not long before d’Artagnan had taken Athos’ place, careful as he pushed in. Aramis reached for him and d’Artagnan was still looking at him like Aramis was some kind of otherworldly being. “My witch.” d’Artagnan whispered in Aramis’ ear, watching mischievously as Aramis shuddered in response.

“My star.” Aramis threw back, grasping d’Artagnan’s long dark hair to pull him forwards to kiss him, sloppy and open mouthed. “My radiant star.”

d’Artagnan grinned at him. And then began to move. d’Artagnan fucked him at a much faster pace than Athos, still in full possession of youthful stamina. “God, Aramis, you feel so good.” d’Artagnan groaned.

Aramis grinned. He always loved to hear d’Artagnan’s voice break and go impossibly lower during sex. “Hypocrite.” Aramis managed to say through the breaths that were being punched out of him by the pace of d’Artagnan’s thrusts. “Lord’s name, d’Art.”

“I’m…not…religious.” d’Artagnan stated triumphantly, particularly when a moment later, he hit Aramis' prostate dead on and Aramis was writhing and cursing in Spanish.

“My Spanish witch.” d’Artagnan corrected smugly. Aramis cursed at him again.

d’Artagnan’s eyes were black liquid by the time he looked down at Aramis and told him “Aramis, I’m close…”

d’Artagnan’s hair was mussed from Aramis’ fingers, his tanned skin shining with sweat, his young, gorgeous body with its lean frame and defined muscle stilled in its movement, and those inky eyes looked at Aramis with such admiration that Aramis could hardly deny the lad anything.

Apparently d’Artagnan’s pleading tone had affected Porthos and Athos as well, because suddenly Athos was there at d’Artagnan’s side whispering who-knew-what into d’Artagnan’s ear and Porthos’ hand had disappeared behind the lad, and a moment later d’Artagnan was coming, under the watchful scrutiny of all three of them. d’Artagnan then collapsed boneless onto Aramis. He nosed behind Aramis’ ear, until Athos and Porthos carefully lifted him out and off of Aramis.

Athos then wrapped d’Artagnan up in his arms, pressing loving kisses to d’Artagnan’s sweaty temple.

“You sure you can cope with another round?” Porthos asked Aramis.

“You ask this every time.” Aramis grumbled. “Do you think that I have lost my stamina for this after last time?”

Porthos laughed. Aramis pushed himself up, pushing Porthos back in the process. “Against the pillows, dear. I am having you slightly differently.” Aramis demanded.

“What happened to you taking the orders?” Porthos asked, though he was moving himself over to the pillows as he said it.

“I am doing this for your pleasure, so…” Aramis shrugged, straddling Porthos and sinking straight down onto his cock. Porthos let out a strangled noise and his hands flew to squeeze Aramis’ hips. “Tell you what, you can tell me when I can come.” Aramis offered.

Porthos’ pupils grew another fraction. “I think that’s a fair trade.” He said, his voice even more gravelled than before.

“I agree.” d’Artagnan joined in.

Aramis looked over to where Athos and d’Artagnan laid tangled in each other, watching them avidly. Athos was trailing a lazy hand over d’Artagnan’s stomach. Aramis smiled at them and put his hands on Porthos’ shoulders, “That settles it then.” He said, looking back down at Porthos, before starting to move. Porthos assisted by holding Aramis steady and pushing up to meet Aramis’ movements.

“I love you.” Aramis told Porthos as Porthos finally reached between them to get a hand on Aramis’ cock. “I love all of you.”

“We love you too.” Porthos said, thrusting a little harder, his hand firm and sure on Aramis’ cock.

“Aghh.” Aramis gasped, “Porthos."

"We do." Athos said suddenly. "We love you too."

"So much." d'Artagnan added.

Aramis let out a noise that was half moan and half relieved sob. "Porthos, Porthos, please, I’m close…can I…can I come?”

Porthos growled low in his throat, his eyes fixed on Aramis’ face. “How can I say no to a request like that? You may come.”

Aramis let go, feeling Porthos follow him straight after. Porthos murmured endearments into Aramis’ ear, saying how pretty he was when he came and how good he had been and how much they loved and trusted him.

Aramis barely remembered his three lovers cleaning him and each other up. But he did remember them all crowding around him with warm arms and kisses just before he drifted off into an easy sleep.

 

* * *

 

**5 January 1482**

 

Captain Treville stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to the Palace of Justice. Judge Richelieu was waiting for him. Treville had not seen Richelieu since he had returned, despite his return being through Richelieu’s demands. He did not particularly want to. But if he was going to make any impact in the treatment of gypsies in Paris’ streets then it benefitted to be as close to Richelieu as possible. Seeing Athos and Aramis alive and well the day before and helping one of their own escape the stocks, had heartened Treville after he had been worn down and wearied by the trials of battle and the gruelling journey back. It reminded him of how many lives were at stake from Richelieu’s personal hatreds and warped sense of treachery and sin. Treville had wanted to see Richelieu forced from power years ago, even before he had witnessed the Judge trying to throw d’Artagnan down a well seven years before. Before Athos had been turned to a life of crime for being brave enough to make a stand and take a risk that Treville never had. Before the Massacre of Savoy, which Treville should have taken more initiative to discover and stop.  Before a boy like Porthos was forced to spend his entire youth an orphan, on the run and constantly fearing for his life and the life of his people because of Richelieu’s corrupted determination that gypsies were not like other human beings, and so should not be treated as such. But no one in Frances’ royal authorities seemed to be bothered by Richelieu’s actions at all. There was nothing Treville could do but to try and assist through his position as Captain; to try and dampen Richelieu’s absurdities, to help lift or alter punishments, and to help and warn the people of Paris when he could.

That was why, despite despising Judge Richelieu with every fibre of his being, Treville was here at the Palace of Justice to see him. The gypsies would need his support during the Feast of Fools and afterward, and Treville would not see good people like Athos, d’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis harmed for being who they were.

Treville took a deep, calming breath, before climbing up the stairs.

“Captain Treville, back from the wars.” Judge Richelieu greeted, his voice as grating and cold as ever. “It is good to have you back, Captain.”

He seemed as thrilled to see Treville as Treville was to see him. Not very thrilled at all.

“You sent for me, Judge. So here I am. Reporting for duty.”

“So you are. Let me explain my actions. Come.” The Judge led the way into the Palace of Justice. Treville grew increasingly uncomfortable the closer they got to the dungeons. The Judge appeared not to notice. “You had a couple of replacements in your absence, Captain.” The Judge explained as he motioned for a guard to open the door to the dungeons for them. “They were all grave disappointments. The latest one…” The Judge broke off when the crack of a whip and a piercing scream drowned him out. Treville took a halting step backwards, memory flying back to wounded soldiers screaming. The Judge however, was grinning, “The latest one was a particular disappointment.” He gestured to where the scream had come from; indicating that the owner of the voice was in fact the one that had so disappointed him. “But I know you. You are a good Captain, if a little…” Richelieu waved his hand around idly until he found the right word, “Challenging. And your reputation as a Captain in your services elsewhere precedes you back to Paris. A war hero, having returned with, I hope, a renewed sense of duty to fight against the evils that plague our country.”

Treville bit back an argument about what really ‘plagued’ Paris, and then the sigh he wanted to release at both being unable to make said argument and for Richelieu’s sheer absurdity. He managed to hold his tongue and followed Richelieu out of the dungeons as the Judge meandered to the balcony of the Palace that overlooked the streets of Paris.

“I am still fighting against the vice and sin of this city, Treville. Even now.” Richelieu said, staring down at the streets below as he did so, a wistful look in his eyes. “You have returned to Paris whilst it is in the midst of its darkest hour. We need to take a firmer hand in order to save its common peasant folk from being so weak-minded and easily misled.”

Treville did not have to guess who Richelieu believed was doing the misleading. “I assume you are referring to…”

“The gypsies, of course, Captain.” Richelieu gestured out into the streets. “Can you not remember the troubles we had with them prior to your departure? The gypsies still live outside the normal order. Their heathen ways inflame the people’s lowest instincts. They must be stopped.”

Treville found himself just as overwhelmed by Richelieu’s corrupted principles as he had always been. Several years away from Richelieu and absolutely nothing had changed. In fact, Richelieu seemed even more determined and deluded than before.

“I was summoned back to help you continue your battle against fortune-tellers and palm readers?” Treville said, attempting to veil his disgust at the man standing beside him, trying to make him see just how ridiculous he was being. But that never had worked, and it was not going to work now.

“You make it sound like a fruitless battle, Captain. This here _is_ a war in itself. The real war. Look at them…” Richelieu pointed into a street where a group were standing playing instruments whilst another of their number danced, performing for coin. “You know that for decades I have been attempting to control and take care of this pollution to our streets one by one.”

Treville thought of various occasions where Richelieu had gotten rid of people in the most disgraceful of ways. But he did not dare bring up cases in which he had caught the Judge in the act, such as d’Artagnan, who Richelieu was not aware was still in Paris or even alive; or atrocities like the Massacre of Savoy, which, as far as Richelieu was still aware, had no survivors. Aramis had (by some miracle with his recklessness) managed to stay off the radar thus far.

“Yet, for all my success, and there have been successes, Captain, there have also been significant problems.” Richelieu continued. “…You remember how that soldier of yours – Athos, was it? - turn-cloaked for them years ago, and more and more gypsies are leaking in to the city past my nets. Last year was particularly lax due to the incompetence of the oaf you are replacing. They are thriving now more than ever before. And it all centres in that safe haven of theirs within the walls of this very city. The Court of Miracles, it is named, if you recall. Their own personal nest. It is my intention to find it, Captain; this year if I have it my way. We are going to flush them out and we are going to deal with this pestilence before it contaminates the entire populace.”

Richelieu was more corrupt than anything else in the city - with his prejudice and his determination that a race of people was a disease, a pest, unhuman and only capable of evil - but he could not see it past his own ‘righteous’ beliefs and assertions.

“So, Captain,” Richelieu said, unaware of Treville’s internal fury, “Now that you have been briefed to our mission, you can begin.”

“The gypsies are still untouchable during the Festival, Sir.” Treville reminded him stiffly. “Which is tomorrow.”

“I am well aware of that.” Richelieu sniffed. “As a public official I am required to attend. But I do not enjoy a moment.” He glowered down at the streets below him where preparations were in full flow for the Feast of Fools. “Thieves, cutpurses, the dregs of humankind all mixed together in a shallow, drunken stupor…”

Treville thought of Aramis with his fingers reaching for Treville’s horses’ saddlebag the day before, the drunken states Athos used to get himself into when he was a soldier that was fighting against demons he could not stop, to every time he had seen Porthos as a youngster sneaking through the streets after an expensive looking purse, and most of all, a little boy just saved from being murdered, crying over his father’s body on the steps of Notre Dame before being told by Treville to run for his life. They were survivors. They may have committed crimes, but they would never be anything near the dregs of humankind. They were not the poison choking Paris to the point of suffocation. That was all Richelieu’s doing.

“Very well.” Richelieu sighed loudly when Treville did not reply, as though he was doing Treville some great favour. “You may start your mission of finding the Court the moment that the peasant festival finishes.”

Treville wanted nothing more than to run Richelieu through with his sword. His fingers had been wrapped tightly around the hilt during the whole conversation.  But unfortunately that would cause more problems than it would solve. If Richelieu died unexpectedly, someone worse could and would replace him. Richelieu had many allies and snakes that he had converted to his twisted view of the country and its people.

Treville gritted his teeth into something that resembled a grin. “I look forward to it Sir.”

“So do I, Captain, it will get me through having to withstand that repugnant festival tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

**6 January 1482**

 

Aramis adored the Feast of Fools. He loved the colours of the tents and flags and costumes. He loved that the Parisian folk all got involved in the celebrations and for at least one day a year, everyone was equal. The gypsies, if anything, became the centre of attention, creating wonder and awe amongst the crowds at their talents. There were food stalls and shops and games and entertainments. There were masks so people could not see your face; bright enough materials for people to see you coming; stilts that made you so tall you stood above the crowds; and other areas where one could get lost amongst the crowds. The Feast of Fools had everything. The biggest shame of it was that Athos was unable to truly celebrate the joys of performing with them, forced to stick to the crowds or their tent with a mask over his face.

“There.” Aramis said triumphantly, placing the mask of an angry looking cat over Athos’ face. “Actually, no, it looks too much like you already. You will be recognised. We may have to find another.”

d’Artagnan laughed aloud at his side, before looking sheepish when Athos  glared at him through the eyeholes of the mask.

d’Artagnan was more alive at the Festival than he had been at all previous others, but that was because he was performing this time. He was full of nervous energy and adrenaline, practically bouncing to get on stage and start dancing. He was dressed stunningly, in loose red pants and an open red vest that was trimmed with gold and bared the centre strip of his chest and stomach. Aramis rolled his eyes at d’Artagnan’s restlessness and looped a belt made from fake gold medallions around d’Artagnan’s waist, attempting to fasten it. “Hold still or you will lose all your energy before you get on stage. Plus you are messing up your hair.” Aramis scolded.

Aramis took great pride in dressing his lovers for occasions such as this. He knew what they looked best in, and when they wore clothes he had chosen they always caught the eye. The four of them had their own tent for getting ready in, which meant Aramis could dress them in private, which he took great joy in doing. Aramis was also in a splendid mood because by some miracle, despite being January, it had been an unusually warm week and the sun was already shining this early in the morning.

He pulled d’Artagnan forward when he was done to give him a kiss, and then patted him on the bum. “Go on, little puppy, you need your earring in and kohl on your eyes. Go.”

d’Artagnan bounded across the tent to the nearest reflective surface, and Aramis turned back to Athos, regarding him. “I do actually like that mask.” He decided.

The mask was navy blue and embellished, the angry cat actually looking more majestic and elegant than anything else, and it complimented Athos’ dark blue, plainer outfit perfectly. “You look wonderful, darling.”

“I need to look inconspicuous. Not 'wonderful'.” Athos reminded him, his mouth curling into a smile just below where the mask ended.

“Urgh. He even makes a cat mask look handsome.” Porthos complained, striding into the tent and eyeing Athos’ close fitting, but plain, ensemble.

“Tell me about it.” Aramis sighed long-sufferingly, kissing the smile on Athos’ face before it disappeared into Athos’ usual disgruntlement toward the Festival.

“Porthos, Porthos,” d’Artagnan asked eagerly, bouncing up to Porthos, “How do I look?” He took a spin, his dark hair shining and contrasting starkly against the reds and golds of his outfit. His dark eyes now enhanced by the lining of kohl, and his hooped earring in place in his ear.

“Striking.” Porthos said, hands descending under the vest to press against d’Artagnan’s bared waist before he leant in to kiss him. “Stunning.”

d’Artagnan beamed. “Are you going to get ready now? Aramis has just finished with us.”

“Thank goodness.” Athos said, earning a flick to the ear from Aramis.

“It is your turn,” Aramis told Porthos, “The King of the Festival needs to looks his best.” It was the only time of the year that Porthos did not mind being called the King of something. Because that was what Aramis loved most of all about the Festival. Porthos came more alive than ever. He held the crowds attentions with ease, he oozed confidence and his performances were often the talk of the city for weeks afterwards. Porthos was the true King of the Festival. Charon and Flea did their parts too, but Charon lacked the charm and Flea lacked the patience that was needed to woo the large Parisian crowds that were drawn to the Festival. Porthos held both charm and patience by the bucket-load. 

“And I need to get ready, too, as a matter of fact.” Aramis said. He then turned to eye Athos and d’Artagnan, who had decided to sprawl on the pile of blankets in the corner. “Are you two not going out yet?”

d’Artagnan shook his head, unable to sit still, even in Athos’ arms. “I want to see you two get ready.”

Athos nodded in agreement, eyes already tracking Porthos taking his shirt off across the tent.

Aramis grinned at them, “If you insist, my dears. Porthos, come here, please. I have picked something especially handsome for you today.”

“I do not doubt it.” Porthos replied easily, coming to stand shirtless in front of Aramis for his inspection.

Aramis managed to not get too distracted by Porthos’ bared chest and rippling muscles as he went rummaging in his hamper of clothes and accessories, which he had ordered be guarded throughout the Festival by Jacques, a young man at the Court that was one of the very few Aramis truly trusted not to steal anything, or let anything be stolen.

Finally he had Porthos dressed in what he had had made for him (with hard earned/stolen coin and materials); a dark green jacket that complimented his muscled and broad-shouldered physique, with a high collar that was studded with metal. The jacket was open to reveal a loose shirt of lighter green beneath and the trousers he wore were tight and dark, until they disappeared into high studded boots. Aramis completed the look by tying a patterned green bandana over Porthos’ head.

d’Artagnan whistled and Athos said “Aramis, I do believe you have outdone yourself this time.”

“I think so too.” Aramis said approvingly, pushing a couple of rings onto Porthos’ fingers before kissing them. “What do you think, Porthos?”

Porthos moved to look at his reflection. Aramis saw he was pleased almost immediately. And then he was rewarded by being swept up in strong arms and kissed thoroughly. “Athos is quite correct.” Porthos said, the moment Aramis was released.

“I am glad you think so.” He smiled. “Now, I had best get ready.”

Aramis was conscious of his lovers watching him the whole time, and rather than make a show of it like he normally would, he concentrated on getting himself sorted.

He had chosen his usual favourite colour to wear; purple. The base of his loose trousers and low V-necked shirt were purple, but were decorated with yellows and golds of flames which rose up the legs of the trousers and the hem of the shirt, to match the fire-based performances he would be undertaking. He then tied a purple bandana around his hair and set a hat with a yellow feather on his head, so that the rim of the bandana could just be seen from under the brim of the hat. He pushed bangles of his wrists and rings on his fingers, and fitted hooped earrings in his ears before lining his eyes as d’Artagnan had done. He then held out his arms with a flourish and awaited his lovers' inspections.

“Beautiful.” Porthos said, running a finger over Aramis’ moustache, presumably to neaten it. “You look perfect.”

d’Artagnan had stopped fidgeting and Athos had stopped looking so grumpy and were both now openly staring, so Aramis assumed they agreed.

*

“I’m nervous.” d’Artagnan admitted to Aramis as he, Athos and Aramis left Porthos to find Flea and Charon, and Jacques with Aramis' precious belongings in the tent, and made their way through the tents towards the centre of the stages and the crowds.

“I know you are,” Aramis said, “But you dance like no-one else, d’Artagnan. You are a star. And I will be with you every moment at the side of the stage, ok?”

d’Artagnan nodded. He wasn’t doing his big performance until later that afternoon when Richelieu would be there and Aramis could tell the energy the lad had had earlier was warping into something else. “And you said Richelieu did not recognise you back in summer, yes? You will have nothing to worry about, then. He does not know your name. He does not know your face as it is now. You will be fine.”

d’Artagnan smiled at him gratefully and reached out to squeeze his arm. “Thanks, Aramis.”

“And I suppose I had best be disappearing soon, then.” Athos said.

“Yes, you had better before you are seen with us.” Aramis admitted regretfully. Aramis and d’Artagnan paused in their walking when Athos suddenly slowed down and changed direction without another word.

“I did not mean right away.” Aramis protested, following Athos, who appeared to be following something of his own.

“I thought I saw something.”

“That same something that you saw the other day?”

Athos hummed noncommittally and carried on, before halting and looking around. d’Artagnan was trailing behind and watching the whole exchange in utter confusion.

Finally Athos came back to them, reaching out to run the backs of his fingers over d’Artagnan’s face. “I will be watching all your performances.” He promised. “And yours.” He told Aramis. “But I had best be going.”

“Alright.” Aramis said eventually.

And Athos wandered off as if still on a mission to look for something he clearly was not sure was really there.

*

Aramis leant back against the nearest stall, grinning to himself as Porthos took to the stage that morning to address the large crowds already gathered at the Festival. Porthos looked stunning, and caught every person’s attention as he took to the stage.

“Come one, come all.” Porthos shouted out to the crowds, his deep voice enticing. “You have left your looms, your milk stools, the animals you keep, the work you do. We’ve closed the churches and the schools. Because today is a day for breaking rules. It is our day, The Feast of Fools. It is a day of celebration for being us, for being free folk. It is our day, once every year, to have fun without fear." It was obvious from Porthos' speech that none of the public officials or security had arrived yet, because what he was saying was downright risky. His speeches would be toned down later on once Richelieu had arrived, but until then, Porthos spoke to the people. "It is a day that we turn Paris upside down and we become the Kings. Today every man is a king and the kings are clowns…” That drew a particularly loud laugh and Aramis put his fingers to his lips to produce a loud supportive whistle. “Let the devil in you free…” Aramis knew that that particular statement would not apply to him. “Let us mock and shock and act a little crazy. Today is our day. It is Topsy-Turvy Day.”

Aramis, and d’Artagnan beside him, were cheering as Porthos left the stage and the first acts took their places.

“d’Artagnan your first dance is up soon, you ready?” Porthos grinned when he joined them, breathless and exhilarated.

“Yes!” d’Artagnan said firmly, having quashed his concerns somewhat since Aramis’ pep talk.

“Well, off you go to Flea.” Porthos encouraged. “I am looking forward to seeing you.”

After d’Artagnan hurried away, Porthos leant against the stall at Aramis’ side.

“You were amazing, as always.” Aramis commented. “You had best carry on impressing for the rest of the day. You have set the bar high.”

Porthos huffed a laugh. “You charmer.” He slung an arm around Aramis’ shoulders.

“I am serious. You always turn me on when you act all confident. I cannot wait for tonight when we can fuck all that adrenaline out of you.”

“Bloody hell, Aramis.” Porthos laughed. “Thanks for that, that’ll be in my mind all damn day.”

“And you are welcome.” Aramis smirked.

They sat in quiet for a moment, watching the hustle and bustle, before Porthos said, “Was Athos ok when you left him?”

“ _He_ left _us_. Wandered off chasing ghosts.”

Porthos looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Aramis shrugged. “Just like the time I told you about the other day. Looked like a startled rabbit and started following something he was not quite sure he had actually seen.”

Porthos hummed low in his throat, sounding concerned. “And d’Artagnan, is he ok?”

“He got a little jittery earlier about Richelieu. But he will be fine.”

“If he isn’t…” Porthos started, and then stalled.

Aramis looked up at him in confusion.

Porthos removed his arm from his shoulders and spun to stand in front of him, taking a hold of his arms and looking him dead in the eye. He suddenly looked incredibly serious, his earlier excitement gone. “I hate to put you in this position after how you felt you had to promise to us you wouldn’t but…”

“Porthos?” Aramis asked, watching Porthos closely. “What are you talking about?”

Porthos took a breath through his nose, frustrated with himself. “What you said the other night, asking me to allow you to do what you have to if any of us were ever in danger? Well if Richelieu recognises d’Artagnan, if anything happens today that means that d’Artagnan and Athos have no other way out…” Porthos paused, before blurting, “I want you to use your magic.”

Aramis stared at him.

“I am sorry to ask this of you after everything but Richelieu isn’t getting better or more lax with us, chances are he has brought Treville back to strike back at us again like the last Captain seemed incapable of doing. If Athos or d’Artagnan get into trouble today, or any time, and you can use your magic and illusion as the last, last resort to help them, I want you to. Please.”

“And you.” Was all Aramis said.

It was Porthos’ turn to look confused. “Sorry?”

“I would use my magic to save all three of you, if it were a last resort, regardless of any promises I have made. Just like I said the other night. That was always the case.”

Porthos nodded at him. “Good.” He held a hand to Aramis’ cheek, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb briefly before letting go. “Thank you.”

Aramis smiled in response, confidant that he was merely reassuring Porthos and himself that all would be well. He had no idea that he would have to live up to his promise far sooner than either of them could ever have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to the script and songwriters of the Hunchback of Notre Dame in this chapter, which guided/was included in the conversation between Richelieu and Treville, and Porthos' opening speech at the Festival.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warning for this chapter: there are some upsetting scenes relating to humiliating and cruel bullying. This chapter follows immediately on from the last, so we are still on 6 January 1482...

The Feast of Fools was always the most bizarre event to behold. As Treville lead the procession of guards and Richelieu’s carriage, the crowd that parted in the wake of Treville’s stallion were a sea of stark, bright colours. There were people dressed as animals, people dressed as royals, people that looked more like dolls and  puppets than people, women dressed as old men and men dressed like children. A man on high stilts wavered out of the way, taller than Treville’s horse by about four feet. There were tents and stalls lining the square, and stages set up in the middle, where around fifteen different weird and wonderful shows were taking place. It reminded Treville how much he loved the Feast of Fools. He had not been to the Festival in a good four years, but it was the same, if not grander than ever. Treville half hoped that this enhanced extravagance was in retaliation to Richelieu. And even if it had not been intended so, it appeared to be working nonetheless.

Judge Richelieu had been in a foul mood from the moment he had descended the steps of the Palace of Justice to get into his carriage, if not for hours before that. Though, Treville was hard pressed to remember a time where the Judge was anything but ill-tempered, dictatorial, resentful or hate-filled.  And the Feast of Fools always found Judge Richelieu in his worst of tempers.

That, of course, did not bode well for anyone who found themselves on the Judge’s bad side that day and although Treville hoped to be extra vigilant to ensure that such a scenario was avoided, the crowd was so frivolous, rowdy and large in number that he was not quite sure how he was going to manage such a feat.

Richelieu exited his carriage at the bottom of the ‘grand stand’ that had been erected especially for the public officials, despite them being the most unwanted guests of the event. There used to be a lot of humour directed at the officials during the Festival, who used to be lightly ridiculed for entertainment value. That had been all but stomped out since Richelieu came to his full power. Treville stayed on horseback next to the stand until Richelieu had seated himself in his ridiculous wooden throne-like seat that connected directly to the long centre stage.

“Treville.” Richelieu ordered. “I want you to do a thorough perimeter check before the main entertainments. Leave the rest of your men here.”

“Yes Sir.” Treville agreed, happy to be sent away from Richelieu’s sour face, and spent his time circling the Festival for the next hour, distracted by the sights rather than really checking for anyone with mal intent.

He spotted Porthos almost immediately, visually eye catching in deep green clothing, and a bright presence in the centre of a large crowd. Quick with wit, and even quicker with a hand of cards, Treville watched Porthos produce a card from a man’s sleeve, a dove from a lady’s purse and grew a bottle of wine out of seemingly empty palms. Porthos spotted him at one point and gave him a wink, unsurprised at Treville’s presence, but no doubt having been informed of Treville’s return by Athos and Aramis.

Speaking of, Treville could not see Athos anywhere. The man had clearly taken his advice, and was nowhere to be found. But Treville knew he would be lurking somewhere close by, keeping an eye on proceedings, most likely in disguise. The idea of Athos wearing a ridiculous costume was both amusing yet utterly unlikely, so Treville kept an eye out for anyone dressed in regal or formal disguise, but there were many of those too in a grand array of colours, so any attempt to find him in the crowd was futile. Which, of course, was good news.

Aramis, however, Treville saw several times during his tour around. The first time, Aramis was on a stage near the centre, dressed splendidly in purple and yellow, spinning fire-lit torches, before lowering the flames of one into his mouth. He then looked to the gasping crowd, with full cheeks around a smirk, before breathing out fire like a mythical dragon. Treville watched for a moment with complete astonishment, before automatically looking for Richelieu. Richelieu had been watching the performance, his face set and calculating. Treville was not close enough to see Richelieu’s exact expression, but hoped it was not one of curious suspicion, which could spell bad news for Aramis. Treville turned back to see Aramis start lecturing the crowd about how best to swallow the blade of a sword, before demonstrating, his throat working, and Treville swore he saw Porthos stop his own act for a moment, too distracted in watching Aramis.

The second time Treville saw Aramis was half an hour after Aramis’ fire performance was finished and Treville rounded a corner between two tents just in time to see Aramis’ hand retract lightning-quick from a woman’s handbag. The woman carried on none-the-wiser. Treville called after Aramis, “What did I tell you?!” And Aramis merely looked at Treville over his shoulder and offered an innocent grin, throwing a coin up in the air and catching it, before disappearing into the crowds mingling at the other side of the tent.

Like Athos, d’Artagnan appeared to have avoided Treville’s lookout, and had not been sighted by the time he returned to Richelieu’s side at the stand. “The perimeter check is complete Sir.” Treville informed Richelieu, before turning his horse around to watch the centre stage, where the main performances of the day were about to commence.

“Well keep a watchful eye out, Captain. Do not trust the riff raff.” From a distance, Richelieu would have looked like he was ignoring the crowd gathering around the cordoned area of his seat, but at closer range, Treville could see the Judge suspiciously watching them out of the corner of narrowed eyes. “This merry temperament could turn at any moment.”

Treville only just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes Sir.”

The crowd hushed when Porthos, glorious in his green ensemble and also now wearing a dark cloak off one shoulder, graced the stage. His grin was broad and bright, his eyes glinting when they looked towards Richelieu with a smug arrogance at being untouchable for the day.

But then Porthos’ attention had moved on, and he was announcing “I said it earlier, but I will say it again for our friends and the officials who have just arrived. Welcome, everyone, to the Feast of Fools…”

“The day that that man is finally in my hands…” Treville heard Richelieu snarl to himself. The Judge’s hands were curling and clenching around the wooden arm rests and Treville was not sure that Richelieu knew that Treville could hear him. “I will count it my biggest triumph. And I will strangle him myself.”

Treville supressed his repulsion at Richelieu’s fantasy, and hoped to god that Porthos managed to evade capture for the rest of his life (or Richelieu’s, if that was what it took for the hounding of the gypsies to cease).

“Gather round folks. It is the time of the day that you have all been waiting for.” Porthos was saying over the excited chattering in the crowd. “The main entertainments of the day. And to begin, come one and come all. Come and see the finest dancer in France. He is making a debut this year that is guaranteed to entrance. You will not forget him, nor will you wish to. I introduce to you...Dancer d’Artagnan!” Porthos whipped the cloak off of his shoulder, holding it up like a curtain, before drawing it back with a flourish, and suddenly, there was d’Artagnan.

Treville could scarcely believe it was the same person that he had saved seven years ago on the steps of the Notre Dame. If it was not for that same complexion and dark hair, and for the fact that Porthos had said the lad’s name, Treville could have passed him in the street and been none the wiser. He glanced at Richelieu, concerned that the other man would have recognised the boy, but Richelieu appeared distracted by something else entirely, his eyes wide and surprised as he watched the performance in front of him. Treville turned back to see exactly what was so captivating.

d’Artagnan had started to dance the moment he had appeared on stage, the music that accompanied him was fast and upbeat. And by god could the man dance. Fast turns on quick, able feet, hips moving, his arms perfectly poised out at his sides. He was a blur of red clothing and tan skin; his waistcoat covering little of his upper body. There was no doubt that d’Artagnan had grown as handsome as Aramis had told Treville that he had. He was certainly not the boy Treville remembered any longer. He had grown strong as well, as proved when he performed a perfect forward flip, into a cartwheel, before sliding straight into the splits. A moment later, he was right at the end of the stage, a metre from where Richelieu sat. Richelieu was still staring as though stunned. d’Artagnan seemed to make the same decision Treville had had (signified by an abrupt look of curiosity on his face as he danced) that Richelieu really had had no revelation as to who d’Artagnan was.

Treville silently willed d'Artagnan not to push his luck, but suddenly d’Artagnan was right in front of Richelieu, looking down into the Judge’s face. He pulled a purple scarf littered with yellow decorative swirls and stars out of a pocket of his trousers and wrapped it around Richelieu’s neck, leaning into his face and staring straight into the Judge’s eyes, that had widened with some surprise. And then, all of a sudden, d’Artagnan had knocked the Judge’s hat down over his eyes and had pushed off from the wooden seat and back down the stage, leaving the scarf abandoned around the Judge’s neck. d’Artagnan had winked at Treville before he had danced off and Treville had to bite down a smile as Richelieu looked furious as he corrected the hat back onto his head and yanked the scarf away from his neck. Though Treville noted that Richelieu did not throw the scarf aside, just kept it clutched in his fist.

d’Artagnan, meanwhile, was spiralling and twisting, before he ran towards the back end of the stage, grabbing hold of one of the thick-handled spears that one of Treville’s men had been holding at the side of the stage from his hands as he went. He jumped, slamming the point of the spear firmly into the wood of the stage as he did, before using his momentum to grasp the spear end with both hands and spin around it like it were a pole, before ending up at the bottom, flinging out an arm and nodding at the audience just as the music ended.

Treville could guess that the cheers of the crowd were the loudest that they had been all day. d’Artagnan stood up, chest heaving and his smile radiant, as he bowed to the audience. Porthos took to the stage a second later, his hand landing on d’Artagnan’s narrow shoulder.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, was our star dancer, d’Artagnan!”

A moment later d’Artagnan jumped off the side of the stage, Porthos following him, and a young woman stepped up in their place.

“I hope you are enjoying your day, boys and girls.” She announced, clapping her hands together, “Now for our next event, the moment you have been waiting for, the crowning of the King of Fools! You all remember last year’s king?”

The crowd cheered as she gestured to an overweight man that was clearly already drunk, wavering around on a smaller stage nearby, a floppy crown on his head.

“So,” The woman shouted over the crowd, her voice carrying easily. “Who can beat our current King? Make a face that’s horrible, frightening and gruesome to be crowned the King! Competitors, get up on the stage!”

“Treville.”

Treville turned at the sound of his name to see Richelieu paying not the slightest bit of interest in the competition for the King of Fools. He was watching the spear that was still wedged in the stage - where d’Artagnan had last been standing - the scarf still wrapped up in his fingers.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Who was that? I have not seen nor heard of him before. This...d’Artagnan.”

“I do not know, Sir.”

“Of course not,” Richelieu dismissed. “You have been away. But he is familiar to me and I…” He paused, “I think I saw him in the street some time last year.”

“You did, Sir?”

Richelieu hummed thoughtfully. “I did. I recognise him, but I cannot for the life of me place him. His behaviour today was unsatisfactory, was it not?”

“Unsatisfactory, Sir?”

“A disgusting display of sexual innuendo, would you not say?” Richelieu was attempting to appear nonchalant, but was failing, and Treville was not quite sure what to make of it. “The women in the crowds were acting most out of order. And for him to…” He looked down at the scarf in his hand. “Unacceptable. I would like for you to keep an eye out for him in the future, Captain.”

Treville inwardly cursed d’Artagnan and his sudden burst of bravery when it came to Richelieu. He may not have been recognised, but Richelieu’s attention had been well and truly caught nonetheless.

“I will, Sir.” Treville promised; though his words were in fact, a promise to keep an eye on d’Artagnan for the boy’s sake, not for the man who was still staring at the scarf in his hand. The scarf that had been wrapped around his neck by the boy he had once tried to force down a well and drown, for being a witness to the murder of his father. Richelieu was looking at the scarf like he knew he should not want to keep a hold of it, but was seemingly incapable of letting it drop to the floor.

*

d’Artagnan was caught by the wrist by Constance as he rushed back to the tent, knowing that Porthos and Aramis would not be far behind him and eager to see what they made of his performance.

“Constance!” He beamed at her, sweeping her up into a hug. “Did you see me? What did you think?”

Constance laughed as she was lifted off her feet. “You were amazing d’Artagnan,” She smiled. “I cannot linger, my husband is out by the stalls, but I broke away after your dance. I just had to see you and tell you how fantastic you were. Everyone was talking about you.”

“I care more for your opinion than all of theirs.” d’Artagnan said bluntly, setting Constance back on her feet. “You look wonderful.” He added.

She did. Constance was dressed in a simple yet elegant dress, corseted at the top in dark blue and laced up the back, with a light blue trail that was edged by leafed detailing. Her hair tumbled in auburn curls about her shoulders, but the front strands were pulled back to meet at the back of her head. It was the smile on her face that was the most beautiful of all.

“Thank you,” She ducked her eyes, ever modest, a light blush colouring her cheeks at the compliment. “You look,” She paused, appearing to be lost for words and d’Artagnan secretly preened, feeling confident and handsome in what Aramis had had made for him. “Like a prince from a fairytale.” She decided finally.

d’Artagnan smiled, kissing the back of her hand. “You are too kind to me.”

“Well, what is a greatest fan for?” She laughed.

“She speaks the truth of it.” Porthos agreed, appearing behind Constance. “She is a greater fan than I.”

“And I.” Aramis added, hot on Porthos’ heels. When d’Artagnan looked at Porthos and Aramis he found heated stares watching him right back. Though Aramis did break away for a moment, ever chivalrous, to kiss the back of Constance’s hand. “It has been a long time, my dear Constance.” Aramis said. “It is always a great pleasure.”

“And thank you for supporting our d’Art.” Porthos added, taking Constance’s hand the second Aramis had released it. “He was hoping you would be attending the Festival today. You are his favourite fan.”

“I have _four_ favourite fans.” d’Artagnan interrupted decidedly, receiving identical grins from Porthos and Aramis. “Speaking of, has Athos reappeared?”

Aramis shook his head. “He may be in the tent. But if he is lying so low that even we have lost him, then that can only be a good thing.”

That was quite true.

“I had best be returning to my husband.” Constance said, smiling up at them all, and putting a fond hand on Porthos’ arm, “It has been lovely to see you all today. Do remember that my home is always open if you ever need it.”

“When your husband isn’t home.” d’Artagnan reminded.

“That always helps, yes.” She smiled mischievously. That was why she was d’Artagnan’s best friend. She loved the thought of adventure and risk. She was daring and brave and the loyalest of friends. “I will see you all soon, I hope.”

“We will make sure of it.” Aramis said.

“You had better. And d’Artagnan,” She gathered her skirts and gave d’Artagnan one last bright smile, “You really were incredible. The best I have seen you perform.”

She hurried back towards the crowds, leaving d’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos standing alone.

“To the tent.” Aramis stepped forward to speak slowly into d’Artagnan’s ear, his voice filled with the aroused promises of his intentions. “If you please.”

d’Artagnan moved immediately, knowing Porthos and Aramis would follow.

As they entered the tent, Aramis ordered Jacques, who was still dutifully guarding their possessions, to stand guard outside. When they were alone, d’Artagnan turned to them, suddenly nervous now that some of his adrenaline had drained. “You do not think I went too far with Richelieu?”

It had been a spur of the moment decision. d’Artagnan had been dancing, and he had noticed Richelieu watching, but not with any recognition. The power of holding so much attention and the thrill of the dance and the thrum of the music had wrapped d’Artagnan up in the moment and had made him feel impossibly brave. He had found himself fleetingly wondering _‘What would happen if I…?’_ and the next moment, he had been face to face with Richelieu, and for the first time in his life he did not find those grey eyes terrifying. They did not haunt him or make him back down and shrink back into the nightmares of his past. He looked into them and felt powerful. The thing with the scarf had been an act of defiance. He had suddenly wanted to humiliate Richelieu, to hold Richelieu’s world in the palms of his hands for a second, and then embarrass him with it. But now the excitement had lessened he worried whether he had made a mistake.

“Not at all.” A voice had them all whipping round to see Athos standing behind them by the entrance to the tent, wine bottle clasped in hand. “You were perfect.” He wobbled a little as he walked forwards. His mask was pushed up into his hair and off his face, leaving the hair pushed back by the mask sticking up in random directions.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan clutched a hand to his chest, where his heart was already hammering faster than usual without the surprise entrance of their fourth. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I think that’s clear enough.” Aramis quipped.

Athos raised the bottle to him with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Well how else was I meant to entertain myself when you three were not on stage?” He asked.

It made d’Artagnan think of Athos wandering off earlier, looking for someone he thought he had seen or recognised. “We have not seen you all day.” d’Artagnan pushed.

“I have known Porthos for almost my entire lifetime.” Athos shrugged a shoulder, making it look more smooth than childish, despite being slightly drunk. “I learnt stealth and only being seen when I wanted to be from the best.”

“Flatterer.” Porthos said, before d’Artagnan felt the man’s strong arm wrapping around his shoulders from behind, pulling him back flush against Porthos’ body. “Now you, were simply stunning today, d’Art.” Porthos commented airily, even as his other hand further opened the waistcoat d’Artagnan was wearing so that it bared his skin to Aramis and Athos.

Athos drained the last of his wine and tossed the bottle aside, hand moving to Aramis' back as he ushered him forwards and pressed Aramis between d’Artagnan and Athos. “Our star.” Aramis grinned, kissing d’Artagnan heatedly before d’Artagnan watched Athos press a hand to Aramis’ shoulder, pushing him until Aramis got the hint and dropped obediently to his knees.

“We will miss the crowning of the King of Fools.” d’Artagnan commented.

Athos then moved forward, almost straddling Aramis as he leant toward d’Artagnan. “Would you rather be there?”

d’Artagnan snorted and quickly shook his head.

“Very well, then.” Athos’ lips quirked into a smile. “You shone today.” He said, sounding brutally honest, as only drunk Athos could, “Every eye in the entire square was upon you. I have never seen you dance so well.”

d’Artagnan closed his eyes, lost in the feeling of Porthos’ lips at his ear and neck, Aramis mouthing at the bared skin of his lower stomach and Athos’ wine-soaked breath hot on his lips. When he opened his eyes again, surprised Athos had not kissed him yet, Athos was staring at his mouth, before flicking his eyes back up to d’Artagnan’s “And so flexible.” He added. “Then, we already knew that.”

d’Artagnan groaned, aroused and impatient, grabbing  hold of Athos’ collar to yank him forward into a kiss.

It was just getting really, really good, when a shout of “Aramis!” was all the warning they got from Jacques before Constance came bursting into the tent.

“d’Artagnan!” She shouted as she ran in. Her eyes were wide and panicked, and not at all disturbed by the sight before her. “Porthos!”

In a flurry of movement, Athos had leapt backwards from d’Artagnan and Aramis fell over backwards in the most ungraceful manner and then shot to his feet, smoothing his trousers. d’Artagnan felt the warmth of Porthos leave his back, but his arms did not retract entirely, his hands lingering to help pull d’Artagnan’s waistcoat back onto his shoulders as d’Artagnan righted himself.

“Constance?” Porthos asked, and d’Artagnan could hear the confusion in her voice. “What is it?”

“Porthos,” She said urgently, “You have to come quickly. You have to stop them!”

That had them all alert. “Constance,” Athos said sternly, voice commanding and all traces of intoxication gone, “Stop who?”

“They were choosing the new King of Fools when a man was dragged on stage. He had a physical deformity – a hunchback. He was crowned King and things were ok, but then Richelieu’s men turned on him. They are throwing things at him and oh! It is awful! You have to come, Porthos! They will listen to you!”

Porthos was already striding out of the tent. Aramis ordered Jacques to go back into the tent and take their possessions back to the Court as they all followed.

“Athos.” Porthos said, “Keep out of sight.”

Without a word against Porthos’ orders, Athos pulled his mask back down over his eyes and peeled away from them.

When they reached the main square, Constance pointed to a stage. d’Artagnan could not believe his eyes. The man was tied down onto a revolving platform on the stage and was covered in tomatoes and other food waste, the floppy crown of the King of Fools balanced mockingly on his head. A woman was screaming for him at the side of the stage, “Phillip!” She was screeching, fighting against the crowd that had surrounded the stage - a mixture of guards and commoners caught up in the drunken ‘jest’ - and she was failing to reach him, “Phillip!”

d’Artagnan knew that his fellow Court dwellers were not the most righteous of folk. They sometimes held their own executions just for the sake of it within the Court. They stole and lied and murdered. But this. This was despicable. It was disgusting. How had things gone downhill so quickly?

“Why is Richelieu not doing anything?” Aramis asked as they pushed through the crowd.

Richelieu was sitting exactly where d’Artagnan had left him, his face set in a thunderous anger, but he appeared to be angrier at the man being humiliated than the crowd for encouraging it. His men had apparently started it after all.

Porthos’ voice was hard and full of fury when he said, “I am going to speak to Richelieu.”

“What?!” Aramis skidded to a halt and d’Artagnan collided with him before he could stop. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am untouchable, remember?” Porthos said, face set in a grimace. “He has to stop this. Or I will.”

Before either d’Artagnan or Aramis could argue, Porthos had stormed off toward Richelieu. Treville appeared to be arguing with the Judge, but was being met with ignorance. Treville clearly wanted to act, but could not with his position as Captain on the line.

Before Porthos could reach the stage, someone started spinning the stage that the man was tied to and more things were being thrown and insults shouted. The woman who had been screaming for him had broken down in tears, still being held back by two men.

d'Artagnan could not see such a thing happen any longer. Enough was enough.

“Help the lady.” He told Aramis, before stalking purposefully towards the stage.

“d’Artagnan!” Aramis shouted after him, “What are you going to do?”

d’Artagnan did not dare answer Aramis because what he was about to do was something incredibly stupid, but it was something he was not going to regret.

*

The moment the poor man had been pulled up on to the main stage by some members of the crowd to compete for the King of Fools, Treville had had a dawning feeling that things were going to take a turn for the worse. It had not taken long for the gypsy hosting the entertainments to grin and announce the man, Phillip, as the King of Fools. In the beginning there had been the usual celebration for the King of Fools, but as he was stood on a stage a little distance away, something shifted. Something changed. One of Richelieu’s men threw something at him and everything descended into foul cruelty.

Treville had turned to Richelieu, surprised when the man beside him gave no order to stop. “Sir!” Treville insisted, “I request to put a stop to this cruelty.”

“In a moment Captain.” Richelieu said, face unflinching and unaffected. “A lesson needs to be learned here.”

Confused, Treville turned back to look at the poor man being tortured and the woman who accompanied him, who Treville assumed was his wife, and wondered why on earth this apparently innocent man needed to be taught a lesson. It was not until the man shouted out toward Richelieu, “Armand, please! Help me!” and Richelieu shifted in his seat but still did nothing that Treville realised that there was far more going on here than met the eye.

There had always been a rumour that a child of the Royal family had been born malformed, and had been whisked away by a close confidant of the family to be hidden away from the public eye. The family had said that the child had died, but there had been a couple of witnesses to the truth of it and Royal gossip travelled as fast as a lightning strike could split the sky. Treville had once wondered whether Richelieu, as a religious figure of high standing and once a member of Royal Court, could have been trusted with the hiding of the child. However, Treville had dismissed the idea of such a plot, because he could never imagine Richelieu caring for anyone other than himself and his own interests and there had not been sight or sound of the lost, forgotten Royal child for over twenty years. But now, as Phillip looked to Richelieu and addressed him as ‘Armand’, it made Treville rethink every notion he had dismissed. It also disgusted him that if that was the case and Armand, was in fact, Phillip’s supposed carer, why was he just sitting there watching the poor soul be humiliated in such an appalling manner?

“Sir, I would like to intervene.”

“Captain. You will do what you are told.”

Treville continued to argue at Richelieu, who ignored him entirely, eyes angrily satisfied as he watched Phillip’s torment.

And then just as the cruelty was reaching its pinnacle and Treville was on the verge of throwing his position to the wind and stepping in, a silence suddenly fell over the crowd. The first thing Treville saw when the crowd abruptly hushed was Richelieu’s face lose any smugness it had contained and morph into an expression of building ire. Treville then turned his head to find whatever it was that everyone was staring at.

He did not know whether to be proud or concerned that it was d’Artagnan.

The boy was still dressed in his red outfit, his feet bare, and his face severe. By the time Treville looked over d’Artagnan had reached the top of the stairs of the stage and had silenced any protest from Richelieu’s men with an uncompromising glare.

Because it was so quiet, the words that d’Artagnan spoke to Phillip carried across the square. “Don’t be afraid.” He said as he knelt before the man, he removed the hat from Phillip’s head and pulled a hanky out of his pocket to wipe at the mess on the man’s face. “I’m sorry.” He said, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. We are not like this, I promise you.”

Treville registered Richelieu finally moving as he abruptly stood up from his seat. “You! Gypsy boy!” Richelieu shouted authoritatively over the crowds, “Get down at once!”

“Yes, Your Honour.” d’Artagnan bit back. “Just as soon as I free this poor creature.”

“I forbid it!” Richelieu snapped.

d’Artagnan’s face set in defiance and he used a knife he had obviously had hidden away somewhere on his person to slice the ropes holding Phillip down.

“How dare you defy me?!” Richelieu thundered.

d’Artagnan stood up and faced him, but it was not d’Artagnan who answered. Porthos suddenly hoisted himself easily onto the long stage in front of Richelieu. “Because you mistreat this poor man the same way you mistreat our people. You speak of justice, yet you are cruel to those most in need of your help.”

“Silence!” Richelieu shouted.

“Justice!” d’Artagnan yelled back from where he was supporting Phillip to his feet and helping to right his torn clothes. Treville was torn between wanting Porthos and d’Artagnan to stop stirring Richelieu’s wrath further, and wanting them to finally have their say about Richelieu’s monstrous behaviour.

“For far too long you have persecuted our people, Judge.” Porthos declared, loud enough so the whole crowd could hear. The crowd had apparently turned again, and were now muttering supportively with every word d’Artagnan and Porthos were saying. “I have lived my entire life in fear for my people, and my own life. Because of you. You murder us for…”

“Murder?!” Richelieu scoffed. “I only act when _your_ kind have murdered or pillaged, which is a common occurrence. They are mainstays of your instincts.”

“How dare you!” d’Artagnan’s sudden shout had all attention back on him again. Treville saw Porthos’ face fall in an expression that Treville could only describe as dread. It hit Treville like a punch to the stomach that Porthos feared d’Artagnan was going to reveal who he really was to Richelieu. And a moment later, they were both proved right;

“Seven winters ago you laid a trap for a boat of six people who entered the city on the Seine. You arrested all but two, who managed to escape you. A boy and his father. The pair tried to claim sanctuary at the Notre Dame and you murdered the man on the steps!”

The noises of shock and anger from the crowd rose instantly and Richelieu struggled to make himself heard over the hubbub, “Another inherited characteristic of gypsies. They can only speak lies.” But Treville, knowing the truth, could see the memory, the recognition of d’Artagnan finally dawn in Richelieu’s eyes. Treville wondered if Porthos could see it too.

“You tried to drown the boy in a well!” d’Artagnan continued, his anger clearly overpowering his own sense of survival. “But he escaped. And I am telling the truth because I was there. I was that boy!”

The shouting in the crowd reached new volumes.

“He lies!” Richelieu shouted.

“He does not!” A new voice responded, and Treville almost groaned aloud when Aramis took to the stage to stand at d’Artagnan’s side. “Because you are responsible for the murders of hundreds of our people! Your orders for the Massacre of Savoy, for instance.”

“That rumour!” Richelieu scoffed, “There were no…”

“You cannot deny it happened because you once again, have a witness.” The way Aramis said it made it bluntly clear to all that Aramis himself was that witness. “Your massacre did not successfully claim every victim. And I know the men you sent to do it, because I can point a couple of them out to you all, right here and now.”

“Enough!” Richelieu screeched. The crowd fell silent. Treville watched Aramis help Phillip down from the stage and into the arms of his wife, the pair now no longer the attention of the crowd. In fact, the nearest members of the crowd stepped up to help Phillip and his wife towards exiting the square. “Mark my words, gypsy.” Richelieu pointed toward d’Artagnan. “You will pay for this insolence.”

d’Artagnan flung his arms out, “Well then, it appears we have crowned the wrong Fool. The only Fool I see, is you!” d’Artagnan flung the floppy King of Fools crown that was still in his hand toward Richelieu. It sailed past Porthos and landed close to Richelieu’s feet.

“Captain Treville. Arrest him.” Richelieu spat. Treville started at finally being addressed directly. He did not miss the accusatory glare thrown at him by the Judge, blaming him entirely for sparing the boy’s life seven years before.

Treville half-heartedly urged his horse into motion with a nudge of his heel.

“Men!” Richelieu ordered.

The guards amongst the crowd began to advance on the stage d’Artagnan and Aramis were standing on. Treville noted the start of a silent exchange between Porthos and Aramis that he could not interpret.

“I will have him for this.” Richelieu growled, just loud enough for Treville, and apparently Porthos who was standing not far away, to hear.

Treville watched the silent conversation between Porthos and Aramis end a second after Richelieu’s words about d'Artagnan, with a nod from Porthos. Suddenly Aramis had stepped up to d’Artagnan’s side.

“Now, let’s see.” Aramis called out to the guards surrounding them, the first beginning to climb the stairs of the stage. Aramis made a great show of counting them, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…So there are twelve of you and two of us. Oh, what are we to do?” Aramis took a hold of the trail of the bandana wrapped around his head and pretended to cry dramatically into it, before suddenly looping an arm around d’Artagnan’s waist and blowing his nose loudly. In that same moment, there was a bang, a poof of pinkish smoke, and suddenly, the stage was completely and utterly empty.

Treville instinctually urged his horse forward a little faster in his absolute disbelief at what he had just seen. He thought, just before he moved out of earshot of Richelieu, that he heard the man gasp “Witchcraft!” But Treville could not dwell on it, because a moment later, the Judge was shouting for the arrest of Porthos, who was still standing on the stage in the centre of the chaos.

“Oh boys, over here!” There was a call to the guards that had turned toward Porthos, and they looked to where the voice had come from. Across the other side of the square, on top of a wooden framed stall, Aramis and d’Artagnan stood. Aramis gave them a wave before they both disappeared again.

Treville stopped his horse in confusion, and simply chose to sat and watch it all unfold. He had had no idea that any of the four gypsies were capable of such feats and it had the guards, crowd, and Treville himself dumbfounded.

A second later Aramis appeared on the stage beside Porthos, and with a wink at the Judge, both of them were gone.

“There they are!” A guard suddenly shouted when he spotted the three gypsies gathered together at the side of the crowd. “Get them!”

But then, something else completely unexpected took place, when a man on high stilts suddenly tilted and toppled over onto four of the guards, and Athos suddenly stood there, brandishing one of the stilts like a weapon.

“Athos?!” One of the guards recognised incredulously.

Treville did not dare look toward Richelieu to see the look on his face.

Athos beat back two of the men with the stilt, before kicking a hamper at them and making a run for it.

d’Artagnan, on the other hand, had gotten hold of a guards’ flat metal helmet, and with a perfectly accurate throw, knocked another couple of guards out with it. Two guards on horseback were tripped by Aramis and Porthos who had tightened a rope out between two stalls to catch the riders in the chest, before Porthos threw a barrel of beer that went rolling into the legs of some more oncoming soldiers. Aramis disappeared in another flurry of smoke and next thing he was throwing Athos a proper sword and they were fighting side by side. d’Artagnan jumped off a stage to escape a couple of guards and was immediately caught and carried by the crowds. The guards attempted to follow and were left to fall back to the stone. Porthos caught one as he fell and physically slammed him down for good measure.

Eventually, it got to the point where the four men apparently made a unanimous decision between them that it was time to leave, because when enough of the guards were on the floor, Athos, d’Artagnan and Porthos all turned in separate directions and made a run for it, too quick for anyone to follow them, and Aramis disappeared into thin air.

When all four of them were nowhere to be seen, the entire square was thick with the silence that followed. The sky suddenly seemed greyer than it had only minutes ago. It felt colder and the threat of rain was on the horizon. People seemed at a loss at what to do or how to react.

When Treville finally summoned the strength to look at Richelieu, the man was absolutely seething. His chest was heaving, his eyes were dark and wild, his mouth set in a thin, thin line.

“Find them Captain.” The words left the Judge in a snarl. “But I want them _alive_.”

Treville did not want to think why Richelieu wanted d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis to be brought to him alive. He did not dare think about having heard the whipping of his own predecessor the day before.

“Seal off the area, men.” He ordered instead. “Find the four gypsies, but do not harm them.” At least the gypsies had a chance to escape and be out of Paris by dawn, Treville thought. And at least, he supposed, there was a mercy in the fact that they would not be killed on sight.

*

Athos waited with a cloak over his head, hunching himself over like an elderly man would; peering out from under the brim of his hood at the side of the tents that lined the square, on the side of which the Notre Dame stood. He knew that no-one would be expecting to see any of them still so close to the dramatic scenes that had just taken place, proven correct as he watched the guards disperse themselves further into the city.

He was waiting for Aramis, because for all of Aramis’ illusionist oomph, the man did not actually ever travel that far, so would still be around the square as well. He was concerned for him, and was waiting to see if he could find him and they could return to the Court together.

This, Athos decided, had just been the pinnacle of a rather terrible day for him. Just as it had started to look up, when he was reunited with his lovers following d’Artagnan’s dance, it was soon scuppered by the utter display of barbarity that had begun whilst they were absent.

Athos’ day had taken a turn for the worse the moment he thought he had seen…well, he was not entirely sure he _had_ seen, because it was impossible…someone he had once known. Because the person he had thought he had seen was his ex-wife, Anne. The same ex-wife whom Athos had had to sentence to death about a decade ago. That was why it was impossible. She had been hung, although Athos had not been able to stay and witness it. It had left him a mess of emotions, dependant on the bottle, and made him make the brash decision of becoming a soldier for Richelieu. In the way that Anne’s memory always did, Athos had spent the most of the day drinking, after he had been unable to find the person that had so eerily resembled her. It would not have been as unnerving to him if he hadn't had a similar 'sighting' a mere two days before.

To have her ghost following him now, after having been free of her for years now, was unsettling. But he felt he could not talk to his lovers about it. Anne had been the only woman Athos had ever loved, and following her death, he had been certain that he would never love again. The men that had proved that certainty wrong did not know about Anne. Porthos had apparently seen them together once, with Thomas, in the streets of Paris not long after they were married. But Athos had never told Porthos of her, or of Thomas’ fate at her hands, or that Athos had been forced to order her execution. And if Porthos did not know, neither did d’Artagnan or Aramis.

Athos hoped to keep it that way, but it was becoming harder now that her shadow was with him once again, at the corner of his eye, always just moving out of sight. It was hard to stay in the present if he was always seeing the horrors of his past; and the present, with his lovers, was where he wanted so desperately to stay. But having them know of what he had done to his old lover, to have them wonder why he still had her locket about his neck, was not something he wanted to face. He was happier reaching the bottom of a bottle than into the depths of his heart and dragging out feelings he was trying to keep firmly locked away. It would get messy. He would get even more reserved than usual, and he had been trying so hard (and finding it easier with his lovers) to be more open with his feelings. Anne was not good for him as she may once have been a long time ago, and the memories of her, and thinking he was seeing her around every corner, was something that he could not allow himself to dwell on. It would pull him down. It would pull him away from those he loved, because even now he would sometimes fear the day that he may lose his three lovers just like he had lost everything else. He could and would not let that happen.

In any case, he felt sober enough now after the fiasco that had just occurred, and he pushed Anne to the back of his mind. His main priority at that second was discovering where Aramis had gotten to, before getting back to the safety of the Court and reuniting with Porthos and d’Artagnan.

He did not have to wait long before a figure emerged from between two tents not far away from him. The figure was hunched like he was, tapping a walking stick in front of them as though they were blind. Athos had seen Aramis use such a trick before. And upon seeing a momentary flash of purple under the long black cloak the figure was wearing, it was confirmed to Athos that he had found who he was looking for. Without further hesitation, Athos marched purposefully towards the figure, grabbing the slender tan wrist of the man beneath it and then pulling him towards the Notre Dame Cathedral.

“Hello Athos.” Aramis spoke quietly.

Athos did not dare to look back at Aramis or linger in the square much longer, as there were still a couple of soldiers who had remained to patrol the area. The Notre Dame was the perfect place to claim sanctuary and wait it out until the cover of darkness, when it would be easier for him and Aramis to be able to return to the Court unseen.

They reached the doors to the Notre Dame unopposed by soldiers and Athos dragged the heavy door ajar enough for the pair of them to slip through and then pushed it closed behind them.

The Notre Dame was quiet, what with the Feast of Fools being held right outside its door, the usual low murmur of speech; the chanting of prayers and the singing of hymns was present, but Athos presumed it was much quieter than usual. There were alcoves filled with dimness and shadows, candles and stained glass windows only serving to fill some areas of the large, grand interior with light. Athos and Aramis would be able to hide there without much notice from anyone else.

Aramis did not speak until Athos had pulled him into the nearest alcove, where they could not see anyone around them, and they in turn could not be seen from the pews.

“I am sorry about the magic.” Aramis began immediately. “I am so sorry. But I had to and Porthos had said to me earlier today that if any of you were in a position in which there was no escape then I…”

Athos silenced Aramis’ apology by pulling Aramis' hood down and pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know. I know. You did the right thing.”

Aramis looked surprised, “There was no other way that…”

“I know.” Athos let himself smile for Aramis, to prove that he really was not angry with him. “The situation was hopeless and your actions were clearly warranted. You saved d’Artagnan’s life. How can any of us be disappointed in you for that?”

Aramis looked instantly relieved by Athos’ words and gave him a worried smile. “Where are d’Art and Porthos?”

“They ran separate ways out in to the city. I presume to safe houses, or back to the Court if they had a good enough head start. The crowd were being difficult in letting the soldiers through, so it is more than possible that they have given them all the slip.”

Aramis let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. Why were you still around?”

“I was waiting for you.” Athos said honestly, pulling Aramis forward and toward him, breathing in the smell of Aramis’ hair.

“Oh.” Aramis said, “Well I thank you for it. And for saving me once again.”

Athos was awarded a stunning smile. “I think it was you who did the saving today.” Athos argued.

Aramis shrugged. “That remains to be seen. I may have just gotten us into a whole new world of trouble.” He reached out to tip Athos’ hood off of his head.

Athos shook his hair free, his mask long gone. “That was of all our doing. And we will deal with that should it come about. I promise you that.”

Aramis leant forward to kiss him, before scrunching his nose up slightly, “Did you drink for the whole day? You smell like a wine cellar.”

Athos hummed, unwilling to start _that_ particular conversation right at that moment.“Did the man and his wife get away?” He asked instead.

“Phillip and Agnes? Yes they did. And I think, after today, people will think twice before joining in with the cruelty of Richelieu’s sort again.”

“We can hope.”

Aramis nodded, looking disgruntled, before brightening slightly, “I think this is the first time we have been in the Notre Dame together since you saved me the night that we met.”

Athos instinctively moved his hand to protectively cover the area of Aramis’ side where a scar still lay from the wound he had been given in the massacre (a force of habit whenever the Massacre was mentioned and Aramis was in close proximity to him) and tried not to think about how close to death Aramis had been when Athos had carried him to the Court.

Aramis' hand covered his own, stepping closer to him, and Athos turned his head to press another kiss to Aramis’ hair. Aramis then pulled him to his lips, apparently uncaring that Athos smelt (and tasted) strongly of wine. It seemed far too soon that Aramis was stepping away from him and pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Have you been in here before, Athos?”

“Once or twice.” Athos replied, “I feel out of place here so do not linger.”

“Well, maybe I could show you around?” Aramis suggested eagerly. Aramis often visited the Notre Dame to spend time and pray.

“I would like that.” Athos said easily. It always warmed Athos to see Aramis’ enthusiasm, and they both had some time to kill before darkness descended on the city.

Aramis had just led Athos out into the pews, when a figure stepped up behind them.

“I do not know whether to congratulate you both or knock your heads together!”

Athos whipped round to find Treville standing behind them. The Captain was still in his fancy armour from the Feast and was unattended by other soldiers. He was frowning at them.

“Treville.” Athos said, “I am sorry for today.”

“It is not you who…” Treville grumbled to himself, “Richelieu is insane.”

“We have known that for years.” Athos reminded him.

“Yes, well, the four of you have infuriated him to a point I have never seen before.”

“That does not sound good…” Aramis started.

“No.” Treville fixed him with a look. “The only one of you he knew for certain was still in Paris was Porthos, and now he knows all three of you are still here. Before today he did not even  _know_ that there were any survivors of the Massacre and…” he paused, letting out a sigh, “And yet I cannot fault you all for standing up to him. It was about time, but possible too late a time.”

“They have not found Porthos or d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, just needing to be sure.

“No, and the soldiers do not know you are here either. I spotted you and followed you in but…”

As though hearing Treville's words, there was a loud bang of a door behind them and Athos heard Treville mutter the word "Typical" with a pained face, just before Judge Richelieu announced,

“Good work Captain. Now arrest them!”

“Claim sanctuary.” Treville growled at them under his breath.

“We claim sanctuary!” Aramis demanded immediately.

“I am sorry Sir,” Treville spun round to face Richelieu, “They have claimed sanctuary. There is nothing I can do.”

“Then drag them outside and…”

“You cannot touch them, Sir.” Treville argued. “Not even Athos. I am sorry. And you learned years ago to respect the sanctity of the church.”

Richelieu sneered, “I remember quite well thank you, Captain. I was reminded of it so blatantly today when the whole crowd was informed of that boy’s…” He stopped and seemed to compose himself. “Very well Captain, see to it instead that a guard is placed at every door to this Cathedral. The moment they step outside of this sanctuary, they will be mine.”

“Yes Sir.” with a look of stern hopelessness at Athos and Aramis, Treville turned and walked out of the Cathedral. Richelieu and his guards followed and the door slammed behind them all, echoing around the stone walls.

“If he thinks he can keep us here…” Aramis started.

“We must not act rashly, Aramis.” Athos warned, reminding himself just as much as he was Aramis. “We must tread very carefully from here on. We caused too much of a stir at the Festival. We cannot arouse Richelieu’s anger further, if we want to live to see the end of the year.”

Aramis nodded. “I know, I know. But we could not have acted any differently today. We could not let the crowd torture that poor man. d’Artagnan and Porthos were right to stand up for him as they did. And when I reached Agnes…” It pained Athos to see Aramis look so upset, “You should have seen her distress, Athos. To see the man she loves…” Aramis closed his eyes. “What is it, Athos? What do people have against people who are different?”

Athos frowned. He had not lived all his life as Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan had. He had grown into his young adulthood in a life very, very different to this. He had a different name. A title. A grand house and land to his name. A fortune of his own. Standing in a different class, surrounding himself with a different company. Despite his constant admiration and interest in Porthos and the gypsies of Paris. And despite that fondness for Porthos and the gypsies, he had never had to experience what Porthos had, not until he had joined the Court himself. He knew what was said about people who were different. He knew. And he despised it with all his heart.

“I do not know.” He sighed defeatedly, laying a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “I do not have an answer for you, Aramis.”

Aramis smiled at him weakly, “It is alright. Besides, I am in the perfect place to ask questions to someone who may be able to answer them.”

Athos could not help the doubt that crept onto his face. “You think He can help us?”

“It is always worth a try.” Aramis said firmly, his hand moving to the cross at his chest. He was still smiling though. “I know you do not believe, Athos. d’Artagnan and Porthos are similarly doubtful. But I still have faith that one day he will help save us.”

“I know you do,” Athos said earnestly, never wanting to make Aramis feel like he should not keep that faith. “And it is good that you have it.”

“Would you mind if I took a moment to pray?” Aramis asked. “I want to speak to Him.”

“Of course.” Athos said, “I will leave you to it and try and find a way out that Richelieu and his men do not know about or have not thought of. Come and find me when you are done?”

Aramis smiled at him gratefully, but did not touch him whilst they were in view of other people, despite the look on his face betraying that he wanted to. “I will.”

“And under no circumstances go outside.” Athos warned.

“I promise.”

“As do I.” Athos smiled, before giving Aramis’ shoulder a final squeeze and turning on his heel, heading toward the front of the pews, determined to find them a way out that would not lead them straight into Richelieu.

*

Aramis sat in the nearest pew and let his head drop into his hands, before looking up at the stained glass windows and the nearest statue, which depicted Mary, holding a baby Jesus in her arms.

“I do not know if you are listening to me right now.” Aramis muttered, low enough that the other people in the pews around him could not decipher what he was saying. “But I know that you are there. I know that you listen to the prayers of even my kind, of gypsies, because you saved me from the Massacre. You led me to them. To Athos and Porthos. And you brought d’Artagnan to us. There had to be a reason. Some people think that because I am an outcast, I should not speak to you, but they do not know. I know that you were considered an outcast too, at times. God, I do not ask for what many others before me have wanted from you; love, wealth, glory to shine on their name. I ask for nothing for myself, I can get by.”

Aramis jumped when the grand door of the Cathedral opened behind him and spun around, afraid that it was Richelieu or one of his soldiers back to try and take he and Athos again, now that Treville was not there to talk them out of it. But it was just a woman that Aramis did not recognise, who shut the door and walked past him down the pews. Aramis turned back to his prayer.

“I know people more unlucky than myself. I am happy with Porthos, Athos and d’Art. But still we are hounded. And I know we could be happier still if you just gave my people a chance to live without the threats that they have faced for years. God, I ask you to help the outcasts. The outcasts who are hungry from birth, that are poor and downtrod and are condemned or killed or humiliated for being who they are. Who have to live in fear and in hiding. Nobody is helping the outcasts, so I ask you to show them the mercy that they do not find on Earth. Some of us outcasts look to you still and I thought it was worth asking you this, Lord, because as far as I am aware, we are all still Children of God. So please, please, help them. Please.” Aramis crossed himself, said “Amen.” and wiped angry tears from the corners of his eyes.

He glanced around quickly to ensure nobody had overheard him, but all the people around him were too concerned with their own prayers and were not paying him the least bit of attention, even after the rather loud confrontation he and Athos had had with Treville and Richelieu.

Aramis stood from his prayer. He walked to the back of the Cathedral, in search of where Athos had disappeared to. Suddenly someone stepped out from behind a stone pillar, a hand grasped his arm and pulled it behind him, and Aramis felt someone press themselves up against his back.

“You sneaky son of a…”

“Ah, ah, ah,” A cold, smug voice spoke into his ear. “Do be careful, witch. You are in a church.” Aramis tried to force himself not to shudder at having the Judge breathing down his neck, and tried once again to free himself, but the Judge was surprisingly strong. “The four of you think you have outwitted me,” Richelieu was saying into his ear, “But I am a patient man. And one day I _will_ succeed in catching you once and for all.”

Aramis froze when there was movement behind him, and a noise that suspiciously sounded like the Judge had just sniffed at his hair.

“What are you doing?” Aramis spat, attempting to wrench his arm from Richelieu’s grasp again.

A gust of hot breath met the back of Aramis’ neck as the Judge gave a dark chuckle. “I was just imagining a rope around that pretty neck.” At his words, the Judge’s other hand came up to wrap itself around the front of Aramis’ neck, his hand pressing into the beads of Aramis’ rosary.

Aramis’ lip curled in disgust, unbelieving that this man would, and had ever, described another man as ‘pretty’ before. “I know what you were imagining.” Aramis snarled, though he was not actually really sure what was happening. Surely the Judge had not smelt him and called him pretty because he found him...what? Attractive? Surely not. _  
_

“Such a clever witch.” The Judge sniffed, “So typical of your kind to twist the truth and cloud the mind with unholy thoughts.”

Aramis started in surprise. “What unholy thoughts?” He asked in complete bewilderment.

“But of course, it is young d’Artagnan that is most to blame.” The Judge carried on as though Aramis had not said anything, and it was more to himself than to Aramis anyway. And just as Aramis dared attempt to comprehend _that,_ Judge Richelieu had released him and was walking towards the nearest door. “Well, no matter.” Richelieu said. “I will have you and Athos before too long. Gypsies do not do well inside stone walls. You have truly chosen the most magnificent prison, though whether one of your…witchery…is welcome here is highly doubtful. I had had no idea that such witchcraft was spawning within this very city but now…” Richelieu stopped what he was going to say, possibly not wanting to reveal too much to him, or believing he had already said too much. “This is a magnificent prison,” He said again, but this time with a larger amount of smug satisfaction. “But it is a prison nonetheless. Set one step outside and you are mine.”

And with that, he was gone.

Aramis stood speechless and in shock for a moment, his skin crawling, before racing for where he had last seen Athos disappear, needing Athos near him. When he could not see Athos anywhere, Aramis started to panic, until his eyes finally fell on the entrance to a small, stone spiral staircase in a far wall that was usually cordoned off from the public. Aramis climbed up the first five steps before calling as quietly as he could, “Athos?”

A moment later, much to his relief, Athos was in front of him, with a genuine smile of his face, and for a moment, Aramis forgot all about his encounter with Richelieu. “You have to come and see this!” Athos exclaimed, before taking Aramis’ hand and leading him up the staircase.

At the top they finally reached a wooden platform, and as Aramis stepped out, his mouth fell open. They were standing just below the bells of the Notre Dame, which were magnificent and gigantic in size; a number of grown people could easily stand within each one. They were gold and bejewelled, and when the fading daylight hit them through the open spaces of the Cathedral, they lit up the stone and wooden floor around them with a variety of different colours. 

“Oh Athos, they are beautiful.” Aramis sighed, wrapping his arms around Athos. “These are what we hear every day. These beautiful, beautiful bells. And look,” He said, squeezing Athos tighter, “We have finally found something about the Cathedral that you like.”

“I am no closer to finding a way out, however.” Athos apologised.

Aramis let him go and said with determination, “There has to be some way. Come on.”

They began thoroughly searching the upper floor for another hidden passage down, and hopefully out of the Cathedral.

After half an hour, Aramis gave up and wandered back in search of Athos, who had disappeared amongst the bells.

“Athos?” He called, the name echoing in the bells above him.

There was no reply.

When Aramis eventually found Athos, he was standing stone-still; as unmoving as the statues and gargoyles that were positioned around them. He was not looking at Aramis, he was staring straight ahead.

“Athos?” Aramis asked again, “What is it?”

When he reached Athos' side, he finally saw what he was looking at. There was a woman standing across the room. The woman that Aramis had seen enter the Notre Dame earlier. She was staring right back at them, chin tilted up in a defiant manner. She was undeniably beautiful, with her long brunette curls and precise cheekbones, if not slightly intimidating. She was…

“She was…is…” Athos finally answered, stalling for a long moment before revealing, “My wife.”

The last word echoed through the bells around them, like an insult. Like an accusation. Fading and rising like a ghost come back to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, for this chapter, credit goes to the script writers and lyricists of The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996), which guide/are used in several scenes of this chapter; including d'Artagnan's defiance at the Festival, the scenes between Athos, Aramis, Treville and Richelieu in the Notre Dame, and the song 'God Help the Outcasts' heavily influenced Aramis' prayer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows immediately on from the last, so we are still on 6 January 1482...

d’Artagnan wondered if there would ever be a day when he did not have to run through Paris’ streets in fear for his life. Since his first arrival in Paris, when he and his father had been run down by Judge Richelieu, and far too many a day since, Paris’ buildings had become a blur on either side as he had run. Run from soldiers. Run from capture. Run from persecution. d’Artagnan dreamed of a day when he would be able to walk around Paris’ streets without fearing of looking suspicious, without being tensed in anticipation of having to make a hasty escape. He dreamed of it, but it would not be a day soon. Not now, at any rate. Not after what had just occurred at the Feast of Fools. d’Artagnan skidded to a halt as he shot out of the end of one dingy alley so that he could swing around and into the next, sprinting down it without stopping to take a breath.

He did not know where Porthos, Athos and Aramis had gone. There had been a silent agreement made between them just before they had parted and run their separate ways from the soldiers at the Festival; the usual agreement that splitting up would be the safest option, and to reunite at the Court. It was an agreement just like every other time they had had to part each other upon the approach of soldiers during d’Artagnan’s seven years at the Court. That was what d’Artagnan was trying to tell himself. It was just their usual routine. But it wasn’t. This time was different. This time the four of them had not only attracted Richelieu’s attention, but his wrath as well. And now, the fact that Porthos, Athos and Aramis were not running at his side was making his chest tighter than the breathlessness of running across a city without stopping.

He tried not to imagine the soldiers capturing any of his lovers. Reminded himself that his lovers were some of the greatest and most notorious men in Paris’ underworld, and that they had not been caught yet (apart from that one time in all of Porthos’ 33 years in which Athos had broken Porthos free and had then joined the Court), and it was unlikely they ever would. They were all too clever, brave and strong to be caught by the likes of Richelieu’s soldiers. They were experts of the streets, masters of escape and professionals at avoiding capture. It was d’Artagnan, in comparison, that was the amateur here. He was the one that should have held his tongue and not stood up in front of Richelieu and thrown accusations and insults at him. He was the one that should not have had to have forced his three lovers to bring themselves to Richelieu’s attention in order to help him. And that was why he was still running and had not slowed down. It was why he was not racing straight back to the Court and risking being followed in his need to ensure that Athos, Aramis and Porthos were all safe. His lovers had risked their own lives to save his that afternoon, and he was not going to act rashly and get himself caught and undo all they had done for him. He was going to ignore that panicked voice in the back of his mind and follow the reasoning that his lovers were following their usual routine and expected him to be doing the same.

He would see them later, d’Artagnan told himself. They would all be safe and well together back at the Court in no time at all. He could not wait to see them. To hold them. To beg their forgiveness and tell them that he was sorry.

It was not until d’Artagnan was another three streets away from the city square that he suddenly found that he apparently had not just been running in some aimless direction. When a row of familiar buildings came in to view, d’Artagnan’s stomach dropped with the realisation that he had instinctively been running to his usual hiding place; the house of Constance and Jacques Bonacieux.

d’Artagnan, at last, skidded to an abrupt stop, kicking up dried dirt amongst the cobbles as he did so. His eyes darted down the row of houses, then behind him, and all around him, to make sure he had not been seen by anyone. The street was, mercifully, deserted. d’Artagnan’s eyes then fell back on Constance’s house, where it stood a little further down the street. He could not go there. He could not bring this down on Constance’s head. He could not drag her into this anymore than she already had been.

He had not anticipated that he would hide there, despite his instinct having pulled him in that direction, and he certainly did not anticipate to stay now that he had realised his mistake. So, he took a deep breath in an attempt to quicker calm his hammering heart, before preparing to run on again. He decided he would hide down near to the banks of the Seine until nightfall.

But, d’Artagnan had not expected that Constance herself would anticipate where d’Artagnan would run to. Just as d’Artagnan made to run again, a voice called behind him, “And where do you think you’re going?!”

d’Artagnan swung around to find Constance standing behind him, holding her skirts up so that they were hitched up to her mid-calves and she was clearly breathless. Her hair was askew and her face was blushed pink and hot with having run herself. d’Artagnan had had a head start from the Feast of Fools, and was a fast runner, but he had come to Constance’s without meaning to, and had come a long route to end up here. Constance had clearly run straight from the Feast in expectation of d’Artagnan needing somewhere to hide.

“I’m sorry.” d’Artagnan gasped out immediately. “I did not mean to come here, my feet just carried me without consulting my head.”

“Well then, your feet have more sense than your head.” Constance rolled her eyes, marching forward and grabbing a hold of d’Artagnan’s bare arm, pulling him toward her house.

“But, the soldiers!” d’Artagnan protested, digging his heels in. He refused to put her in any more danger. “Your husband!”

“My husband is attending to his stall and then he will be going back to his shop.” Constance said, and d’Artagnan’s feet made less of an effort to resist following her. “And the soldiers are coming, all right. So we had best get you off the street. In that outfit you stick out like a big, red flag. Where else were you expecting to hide without being recognised instantly?”

“That was why I was not going to stay around your house.” d’Artagnan argued, “If someone sees me with you…”

“Everyone that lives in this street is still at the Festival, or else coming back from it. So hurry yourself before we do get seen.”

That, finally, made d’Artagnan surrender and quicken his pace, following Constance in to her house.

“Oh, Constance.” He said the moment they were inside. He pressed his back against the closed front door, sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor of the narrow hallway, dropping his head to his knees, “What have I just done?”

He noted Constance crouching down to his height, but only looked at her when she gently pulled his hands away from his face. “What you did,” She said, her voice soft and...was that pride? “was a very brave thing. You saved that man and his wife. You stood up to Judge Richelieu for your people. You were a beacon of hope for the common folk who had lost the fire in their bellies. Not one person aside from Richelieu and his soldiers disagreed with what you said. They all rallied behind you. Your escape from the square was made easier by the crowds preventing the soldiers from following you. It was just a shame that some of them had gotten caught up in taunting that poor man in the first place. I am sorry. If I had not come to you all and told you of that man none of you would be in this mess.”

“That is not true.” d’Artagnan said firmly, turning his hands so that he could grasp Constance’s in his own, “No. Do not apologise for that, Constance. You may have saved that man’s life. Who knows how far they would have taken it if we had not intervened.”

“And even if you had not, Porthos was about to risk himself anyway.” Constance reminded him. “So you cannot blame yourself for this.” She smiled at him, “It was a team effort.”

d’Artagnan gave her a smile, but could not stop from biting his bottom lip straight after as he started to worry again, “Richelieu will not let us escape this time, Constance, I can feel it. He will hunt us down and I…” He looked up to the ceiling, blinking back tears before meeting Constance’s own, worried gaze, “He will, won’t he?”

“We will deal with that when we come to it.” She said.

“You should not have to deal with this at all!” d’Artagnan argued, “I should not have dragged you in to all of this.”

“I was not dragged anywhere.” Constance reprimanded, “As I recall of our first meeting, I technically dragged you.”

“Well I did nearly fall on your head from an open window.”

“That you did.” Constance said, “But I am so glad that you did fall in to my life. It would have been hellishly dull, otherwise.” She got back to her feet, holding out a dainty hand for d’Artagnan to take. “I do not regret meeting you d’Artagnan. I do not regret helping you. And I certainly do not regret being your friend.”

d’Artagnan smiled at her, also unable to imagine not having Constance as a constant in his life. He took her hand gratefully, though did not let her take much of his weight as he got to his feet. “You did not happen to see Porthos, Aramis or Athos on your way from the Festival, did you?” He asked, thinking it at least worth a try.

Constance shook her head, “I’m sorry. You all went different ways, and Aramis…well I do not even know which direction he went in. He just disappeared. But I had hoped that you would come here to hide, and so I did not wait around. I made arrangements with my husband and then came straight here. But I am sure they are alright d’Artagnan. Those three are uncatchable.”

“God, I hope they stay that way.”

“Well, I am sure that they are worrying about you just as much as you are them.” She said, before her cheeks pinkened in a blush, “I am also sorry for barging in and…” She coughed awkwardly, “Interrupting you all earlier.”

d’Artagnan found his face splitting into an amused grin, “I am sorry if it made you feel awkward…”

“More flustered than awkward.” She corrected.

d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow, “Oh? Is that so?”

Constance scowled at him playfully, “Well, four handsome men together in a tent will do that to a girl.”

d’Artagnan laughed, and it was genuine; Constance’s reassurances and company relieving some of the doubt and worry in his chest. “Well I sincerely apologise.”

“No you do not.” She smiled back at him, her eyes glinting, “And nor would I expect you to.” She regarded him, “You must be famished from dancing all day and running for so long.” She said, “I know I am. Come and have something to eat.”

d’Artagnan followed her into the kitchen, “But what about…”

“You refuse food every time you are here. My husband will not miss a piece of bread and a slice of cheese, d’Artagnan. I am not taking no for an answer, sit down.”

d’Artagnan did not argue with her commanding tone and promptly sat down at the table.

“Would you like a jacket or something to keep you warm?” She asked as she pottered about fetching cups, plates, knives, bread and cheese, “As fantastic as you look in that outfit and as much as it flatters you, it must not be the most warm or practical attire.”

d’Artagnan looked down at himself, in his beautiful red trousers and open waistcoat, his bare skin still bared to the world. At the attention, his skin suddenly recognised the chill of the little kitchen, that was losing light rapidly as the sun got lower in the sky outside. “I am fine.” He dismissed, always hating to ask for things.

Constance caught his lie as quickly as she always did. She rolled her eyes at him for a second time since getting him into the house and threw him an apple, before placing a plate of bread and cheese before him and crossing the kitchen to pull a blanket from the basket of washing across the room. “At least take this for now.” She said, wrapping it around his shoulders and sitting down opposite him with her own plate.

d’Artagnan burrowed gratefully back into the blanket and the moment he took his first bite of food, he truly felt how hungry he was, and ravished the rest of the meal before him.

“Told you.” Constance said, and d’Artagnan did not know whether she meant about the food or the warmth. Probably both. Probably just about everything. Constance was always right. Just like she would be right about Athos, Aramis and Porthos. d’Artagnan found himself pushing his hand into his trouser pocket and closing his fingers around the pendant in his pocket, that he had been keeping safe whilst he danced. He took it out and looped the string back about his neck, feeling secure at its familiar light weight resting against his skin, where it had made a home for itself for the past seven years. He closed his eyes and took a breath, calmed by the returned presence of his favourite possession.

“Richelieu _will_ try harder to find us and the Court after this, won’t he?”

Constance would not lie to him. And she did not. “Most likely he will, yes.”

“And he knows who I am now.”

“He does.”

“I always feared this day. I had nightmares about it for years, about him seeing me and remembering. Seeing me and wanting to finish the job he was unable to when Treville saved me. And now that it is here…” d’Artagnan paused, picking at the crumbs on his plate. Constance was watching him closely. She knew all of this, of course. They told each other everything. But now it was different. Now everything had changed. “I do not know how to feel.” He said honestly, glancing up at her, “I do not know whether I am glad to have faced my nightmare as bravely as I did. I do not know whether I want to turn back the clock. I do not know whether I am afraid by what happened, or relieved.”

“Well, let’s look at it a different way,” Constance offered, “What _do_ you know?”

d’Artagnan took a deep breath, watching his hand shake slightly before he clenched it into a fist. “I know he will still haunt my nightmares. I know he will still hound me and my people. I know that it will be years, if not forever, that I will have to keep running.” He looked up at Constance, guilty in not being able to provide a more optimistic outlook, which was clearly what her question had been intended to do. She was looking at him with such a great sadness that it was hard for him to maintain eye contact with her when he said, “I do know that now that I have faced one nightmare, I am sure I will gain nightmares about something else instead.”

“Oh, d’Artagnan.” Constance said, her voice hushed and concerned as she reached across the table to clasp his hand. “We cannot let that be the case.”

“It will be worse now, Constance.” d’Artagnan said glumly. “After today I can see Richelieu coming down on us harder than he ever has before. I would not be surprised if…” He stopped abruptly as a horrible thought occurred to him. What if Richelieu began to suspect that in order to keep evading him so effectively, the gypsies had to be getting outside help from sympathetic commoners? What if he began to crack down on everyone in Paris, not just on d’Artagnan’s people? “I cannot come here again after tonight.” He blurted out his realisation.

Constance looked shocked at his outburst, her fingers tightening around his, “Why not?” She asked in confusion.

“Richelieu may start thinking of looking where he hasn’t before. He may decide to make more of an effort to keep a watch of the streets. He may start searching houses. I could not risk coming here again. I cannot risk your life, or your husband's. I will hide out in the Court for a while and not even risk venturing too far in to the city. It is better for everybody that way.”

“I would be sad not to see you.” Constance said, her voice as kind and honest as it always was. “But you are my best friend. And that is why I can only accept your decision, if you think that it is best.”

d’Artagnan looked at her lovely face, and down at where their hands were clasped together. Constance had accepted him in and helped him so many times. He owed a great debt to her. She risked herself every day for the sake of a gypsy. He was so grateful for her friendship. And that was why his promise not to come to her house again did not seem like enough protection for her.

“There may be people who have seen us together at some point in the past.” He started, his paranoia increasing, “And if they are afraid or under pressure, they might give you up, or let something slip or…I could not have that happen.”

“d’Artagnan, what you are saying is highly unlikely…”

“You do not think Richelieu might one day try a different tactic?”

“I would never underestimate the madness of that man.”

“Exactly. And today might be the catalyst he needs to change his methods.”

“As I told you, d’Artagnan, you cannot blame yourself for today. I know you are.”

“I will not blame myself for today." d'Artagnan promised. "I _will_ blame myself, however, if anything was to happen to you.” It was then that d’Artagnan realised a way he could help. “Obviously I am not asking you to go in to hiding, because as you say, I may just be thinking the worst. But if one day you ever do need to find a place of safety,” He pulled his precious pendant back over his head with his free hand and used his other hand to turn hers over, placing the pendant on her palm. “You will need this.”

“What is it?” Constance asked, lifting up the pendant and turning it over in her fingers, eyeing the strange threads criss-crossing the oval shaped frame, like a dreamcatcher. “I know you have always worn it. But I never brought myself to ask.”

“This,” d’Artagnan smiled fondly at it. He had never seen anyone touch it other than himself and his three Inseparables, but it looked safe in Constance’s hands. “This belonged to Porthos for over twenty years. Then he gave it to Athos, when Athos was still a soldier, as a show of his trust, for if Athos ever needed a place of safety. Athos used it for the first time saving Aramis the night of the Massacre of Savoy. Then, because Athos knew the way by that point and Aramis was not from Paris, he eventually passed it to him, when he and Porthos knew they could trust Aramis too. Aramis had it for a while, until I came along. I have had it with me for almost seven years.”

“What do you mean when you say Athos _used_ it to help Aramis? And that Athos _knew the way_ by that point?”

d’Artagnan grinned, “It’s a map.”

Constance went slightly cross-eyed as she stared at the pendant harder in surprise. “A map?”

“Yes. A map. Porthos always said ‘When you wear this woven band, you hold the city in your hand.’ So look at it as though it is the city.”

Constance studied it a moment longer before pointing at the symbol of a little grey cross amidst the threads, “Is this the Notre Dame Cathedral?”

“Yes!” d’Artagnan said enthusiastically, pointing at the blue twisting line not far from it, “And this is the Seine.”

“I see it!” Constance cried out, her grin spreading over her face and her eyes lighting up in delight at figuring it out. d’Artagnan smiled at her. “It really is the whole city!” She said, before, “Then, what is this?”

d’Artagnan looked at where she was pointing, at a smaller cross some way from the symbol of the Notre Dame. “That,” He said, “Is the entrance to the Court of Miracles.”

“What?!” She gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth, “And you trust me with this?”

“Of course. I would trust you with my life. I want you to be safe. So if you ever are not safe and need a place to hide, or a sanctuary to go to, then now you have a map to the Court.”

“Oh d’Artagnan, I do not know what to say.”

d’Artagnan reached out to close her hands tighter around the pendant. “Just keep it, for me?”

“For now.” She decided, “As soon as this all blows over, which it will, and you feel like it is safe to come and see me again, I will make sure to return it to you.”

“Deal.” d’Artagnan grinned, hoping that that day would come as soon as possible. He glanced out of the window to see the sun not far from setting, “I had best get going, before Richelieu has even more soldiers swarming around.”

“Are you sure that is wise?”

“I need to get back.” He needed to see Porthos, Athos and Aramis. “I think leaving now will be just as risky as waiting for longer. Besides, your husband will be back soon.”

“So he will.” She said, also glancing out of the window at the fading light. “Let me go and get you a coat.”

“I already have one of your coats.”

“So you do. Wait there and I will go and get you another.”

When d’Artagnan slid the coat Constance had found for him onto his shoulders he sent her a grin. “One day your husband will go to fetch a coat and find that he has none left to wear.”

“Well, I will tell you what,” Constance said, stepping forward and smoothing her hands over d’Artagnan’s shoulders to straighten the coat. “When I return your pendant, you can return my husband’s coats.”

“Agreed.” d’Artagnan stepped forward, “Please keep the pendant safe for me. And keep yourself safe.”

“I will. So long as you promise to do the same. You and your boys.”

“I promise.”

“Then I will see you soon, I hope.”

“When this all dies down, then I will return.” He placed a kiss on the back of her hand, “Until then, farewell, and thank you Constance.”

*

d’Artagnan reached the Court with only two close calls, which he counted as success. His heart was thumping nervously all the while, expecting to round a corner and smack straight into a group of soldiers. But after leaping into a couple of dark spaces he managed to somehow avoid being seen by anyone. He made it back to the Court unscathed, unseen and unfollowed.

It was not until d’Artagnan entered the main hall of the Court and found everyone turning to stare at him that he realised he had not even spared a moment to think, aside from all his other worries, what the other gypsies of Court would think about the events of the day. Would they support what he had done? Or would they want to string him up on the gallows? He stopped dead and swallowed nervously, eyes roaming the crowds for a particularly friendly face. Or for any of his Inseparables.

Suddenly, however, someone near the back of the crowd started to clap, and a moment later there were cheers of encouragement and support. d’Artagnan did a double take.

Flea pushed through the crowd until she was standing in front of him and he was thankful to see that she had managed to escape the Festival. “You are a bit of a hero around here, d’Artagnan.” She said.

“People aren’t angry?”

“Well, some of them are.” She tossed her head towards a closely knit group that were glaring at him. “But the majority of us see it as a bloody long time coming for that corrupt Judge.”

“But if he ups his efforts to try to find us…”

“No-one is going to give us, or you, away, d’Artagnan. Our people stick together. We have each other’s backs. No-one is going to utter a word about it.”

d’Artagnan looked over her head, at the people behind her, who had gone back to their own business and were no longer paying them any attention. He knew he could rely on these people to protect them all. They may not be the most trustworthy of peoples, but they were deadly loyal to their cause. d’Artagnan nodded at her gratefully. And then he asked his most burning question, “Where are Porthos, Athos and Aramis?” He was surprised they had not been there to meet him.

“Erm…” Flea’s slight figure shifted awkwardly, “They, erm, they aren’t back…yet.”

“What?!” d’Artagnan cried out. He had been gone for so long he had been sure that at least one, if not all of them, would have been back in the Court by now. “You have not seen or heard of them?”

“Not a thing.” Flea apologised. “I will let you know the moment I do.”

“Right.” d’Artagnan said. There was nothing he could do, then, but wait. His stomach was beginning to churn with that fear again that he had only just calmed at Constance’s. He tried to remain composed in the face of Flea and the rest of the Court, but the doubts and dread was back with a new force, boiling and building inside of him. What would he ever do without them if something happened to one of them? How would they cope without four? What if he was the only one left? What would he do? “I suppose I just have to wait then.” He forced out.

Flea eyed him cautiously. She had seen the change in him. She knew more than most the real connection between the four of them. She knew how he was feeling. “I’m afraid so.”

“Right.” He said again, at a loss for what to say, afraid to try and say more in case his feelings spilled out of him with a force he could not stop. “Let me know if…” He swallowed.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Thanks.” And then, with nothing more he could say to her, he wandered off towards their room in a daze. He had been so eager to get back to the Court, expecting to find them waiting for him after he had been at Constance’s for some time. He needed them. He could not lose them. What would he do if he did? What would he do?

His looping worries were halted abruptly when someone suddenly blocked his way. d’Artagnan lifted his head up and locked eyes with LaBarge. LaBarge was one of the most notorious criminals of the Court. And he had always had a specific dislike for d’Artagnan, for reasons that had never been clear. He was bigger and stronger than d’Artagnan could ever hope to be, but he had never really been able to act on his hatred because d’Artagnan was under the protection of Porthos, and to a latter extent Aramis and Athos. d’Artagnan had no doubt that LaBarge was one, if not the leader, of the group of Court-dwellers that was unhappy with d’Artagnan’s actions at the Festival.

That was confirmed a moment later when LaBarge growled, “You have grown too big for your boots, boy.”

d’Artagnan noted that LaBarge’s cronies had closed in around them both, making a retreat impossible. “Back off, LaBarge.”

“I don’t think so.” LaBarge grinned in his usual scowling manner, “You swan around this place thinking you’re untouchable because you are the Inseparables’ fuck-boy, but now you have outstepped your place. I doubt the King of the Court will be so eager to have you after this.”

“You know nothing about it.” d’Artagnan hissed.

“I do. Porthos does like his strays, doesn’t he? A whelp like you, an ex-soldier and that man with his strange powders and lust for death. The man is a fool to trust strays like you. But then Athos and Aramis do not act out like you do. You think they will still want you after this? Think you won’t be kicked out on the streets to be torn apart by Richelieu’s dogs. Unless, of course,” He stepped a little closer, towering over d’Artagnan menacingly, “I get there first.”

d’Artagnan snapped, reaching out quick as a flash to close his fingers around a dagger he had spotted at the hip at the man next to him. Before LaBarge could react, d’Artagnan had grabbed a hold of his shirt front and was pressing the blade up to LaBarge’s throat. d’Artagnan pushed himself up on the balls of his feet to get as much into LaBarge’s face as possible. d’Artagnan had not survived the Court by being a coward. d’Artagnan could be just as fierce as the rest of them, if not more so, because he seemed so innocent in his youth that people never expected it of him until they had a blade in their side. Or in this case, at their throat.

“Speak one more word against me and I’ll cut you a new mouth to spout through.” He hissed, digging the sharp edge into LaBarge’s throat. He was aware of the men surrounding him, but ignored them. As long as LaBarge was at a disadvantage, they would not dare move. LaBarge was looking down with him with a great deal of surprise, and d’Artagnan was amused to see, a hint of fear there as well, which meant a lot when it was LaBarge. LaBarge had been poking at already frayed nerves, and d'Artagnan was not going to tolerate it. “I will cut you a smile,” d’Artagnan grinned savagely, “A smile to pair with that constant frown on your face.” He dragged LaBarge a bit closer to him, “Well?”

“Let me go, whelp.” LaBarge grumbled, trying not to work his throat too much and risk cutting himself.

d’Artagnan drew the first few spots of blood regardless, “Try again.”

“Let me go, d’Artagnan.”

“And you will _never_ say a bad word against me again?”

“No.”

d’Artagnan relinquished his hold of LaBarge, but tightened the hold of the knife as he shoved away from LaBarge. “Great.” He said, sending a calm, determined glare at the men surrounding them. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

The men parted to let him through without any further complaint.

The moment d’Artagnan was alone in their rooms, a place where there were the strictest rules of privacy, d’Artagnan allowed himself to crumble to the bed, tossing the blade aside as he did so. He curled himself up in the blankets of the bed he shared with his Inseparables, fighting against the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. With LaBarge’s words and his own terrified concerns still whirring about his head, d’Artagnan buried his head in the nearest pillow and prayed that he would see Athos, Aramis and Porthos again.

*

“Remember that conversation we had the other day about not really knowing each other?” Aramis spoke into the silence that had descended following Athos’ announcement.

Athos paid the tease no attention. His eyes were fixed on the woman – his wife, apparently – who was glaring back, suspiciously composed in comparison to Athos. “You should be dead.” Athos said suddenly, sounding as ineloquent and lost as Aramis had ever heard him.

“And again,” Aramis said, “With the not really knowing each other.” attempting to make light of the situation for want for a better way to react to the news that had been dropped on their heads as if one of the great bells of the Notre Dame had been cut down upon them.

Athos still looked like he had seen a ghost. He looked wary, like a spooked animal.

“I doubt you know very much about him at all.” The woman said finally, and addressing Aramis rather than her husband, which irked Aramis almost as much as her insinuation that he did not know the man standing beside him better than he knew himself. “Does he, Olivier?”

Athos flinched at being addressed as ‘Olivier’, and Aramis found himself taking a protective step forward, positioning himself a little more between them. He sent the woman a withering smile, “If that was supposed to surprise me, I can inform you that it does not.” Porthos had met Athos when he had still been Olivier. Athos’ abandoned title, lands and position was not news to Aramis. “We all go by names that we did not have before.”

That, finally, managed to draw Athos’ attention from his wife and to Aramis. Aramis glanced over to meet Athos’ questioning stare with a small shrug of one shoulder. He would tell him later, when they were out of sight and sound of this woman, who Aramis did not trust. And who, apparently, should not even be alive.

“This is not an attempt to surprise _you_.” The woman bit back at him. “Is it, Olivier?”

“Athos.” Athos snapped immediately. “I go by Athos, now, Anne.”

“Milady.” The woman retorted. “I go by Milady now, _Athos_.” Milady regarded Athos coolly. “It appears your friend here is right in that the names we had before do not apply to us now. The lives we had before. We appear to have left them behind.”

Athos made a pained sound in the back of his throat, not loud enough for Milady’s ears but Aramis heard it, and it made his heart ache. “I can never let you leave behind what you have done.” Athos told her. “I still do not even understand how you can be standing here when I…”

“When you what, Athos? Left me to be hung?” Athos made a sharp movement beside Aramis as though he had been struck. “When you were not even man enough, did not even love me enough, to stay and watch me die?”

Aramis’ eyes automatically fell to the ribbon around Milady’s neck, tight to the skin as though hiding something beneath. Aramis then looked to Athos, and Athos must have caught the unease on Aramis’ face, because suddenly it was Aramis who Athos had grasped hold of and was apologising to, not his wife.

“Aramis, I married her not knowing who she truly was. She was a thief, and then became a murderer. It was my duty to…”

“I am sorry, Athos.” Milady interrupted. “But isn’t the man you are trying to convince of the righteousness of your behaviour also a thief and a murderer? Are not all the sort you keep company with nowadays, thieves and murderers?”

Aramis watched Athos’ face flicker through ten different emotions in a matter of seconds. He did not think he had ever seen Athos more out of his depth and trapped. But no matter what argument either he or Athos gave to Milady about what she had said, it was undeniably true. They had all stolen for means of survival, and there had been brawls over the years in which it had been necessary to take a life to save their own. Aramis could not bear seeing Athos looking at him like he was, like he was desperate for Aramis to understand. To forgive him. But there was nothing for Aramis to forgive.

“It was your duty, in the position you had, to order her execution.” Aramis finished, looking at and speaking only to Athos, as though Milady was not there, hoping that that would help the other man. “Who did she murder, Athos?”

Athos’ eyes grew impossibly sadder and grief stricken and his hold on Aramis’ arms tightened almost painfully. “My brother.”

Aramis swallowed, throat feelingly suddenly thick. Porthos had told Aramis that Athos had once had a brother, but that he had not spoken a word of him since he and Porthos had reunited when Athos became a soldier. Porthos assumed something bad had happened because of Athos’ refusal to mention it, so had not pushed him to find out. Aramis knew how painful losing someone so close to you was. Aramis had lost Marsac, who was as close to a brother to Aramis as he had ever had. Aramis had lost his parents and grandparents. But he had never had someone he loved be the cause of the death of another he loved. To have had both a brother and a wife simultaneously taken from him was difficult to even imagine. It was Aramis’ turn to take a hold of Athos and pull him forward into a hug. Athos let out a shuddering breath into his shoulder. How Athos had managed to keep all of that only to himself for so many years was beyond Aramis. No wonder Athos suffered from nightmares.

Aramis let his gaze shift to Milady, who was watching them calculatingly, like she could not work out their relationship. “You are not of position anymore.” Aramis told Athos, still ensuring to speak to Athos rather than addressing Milady about Athos, though his eyes stayed fixed on her, and she watched him right back. “Circumstances are different.”

Actually, in the fact that the gypsies of the Court often had their own executions and Flea, Porthos and Charon were the personified Judge, Jury and Executioners for the Court, Athos and Aramis had often found themselves involved in decisions involving executions.

“Ah yes, because Athos is no longer a law-abiding citizen, so of course, he can now execute whoever he likes.”

Athos swung out of Aramis’ arms abruptly, storming towards her and only stopping when he was a pace or two away from her. “You think I did not grieve for you? That I did not love you? You think I did not hate myself for what I let happen? I could not even stay to watch…” Athos turned away, taking a hold of the locket that he kept around his neck. Aramis could now understand Athos’ attachment to it, if it had connection with her. “But I suppose that worked in your favour, in the end.”

Milady’s eyes locked on the locket, and although she did not mention it, something in her unwavering façade cracked slightly. “The executioner gave me mercy when you did not.”

“You murdered my brother!” Athos shouted.

“He attacked me.” Milady argued back.

“Thomas would have never hurt a soul. I do not know why you still think such a lie could convince me. He found out you were not who you said you were and you killed him in an attempt to stop your lies from unravelling!”

“I know what I was accused of Athos. I bear the scars of those accusations.”

When Athos took another halting step forwards, looking ready to argue back, Milady tutted, wagging a pale, slender finger, “Ah, ah. Be careful how you respond, Athos. Or I may be even less inclined to help you escape the Notre Dame.”

*

When Porthos had been a young slip of an orphan begging on the streets, he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that he would one day be sipping from an expensive porcelain cup at the grand oak table of a rich, well respected Lady in a big, fancy house. And that these visits had become a natural thing to him. And that the widower Lady Alice would prefer his company to all the other men of France, including that of her husband, when he had been alive.

Porthos drained the cup and set it down, its delicate floral pattern feeling too fragile in his big fingers. Alice had left the room to speak to a servant of hers that had just arrived home from the Festival. The two servants of Lady Alice knew of Porthos’ visits, but cared so much for their Lady that they would never betray her to Judge Richelieu or his soldiers. Porthos was on friendly terms with both of them, which was why, when Lady Alice entered the room, her servant Celine had brought her specific information.

“Porthos,” She said, as he rose from his seat at her reappearance, “There is news of Athos and Aramis.”

He sat back down heavily, “There is?” He forced himself not to clench his fingers around the little cup until it shattered. Surely they had gotten away and were safe? Porthos did not know how he would cope with the news of their capture. “Please tell me that they are ok. I do not think I could handle bad news.”

“They are safe.” She said, “They have claimed sanctuary in the Notre Dame. Unfortunately, Richelieu knows they are there and has guards posted at every door, intending to arrest them the moment that they try to leave.”

Porthos groaned loudly in despair and dropped his head into his hands. It was better than he had feared, but still, how would he get them out of this one? He felt Alice’s tiny hand touch his arm carefully, “They are untouchable so long as they are in sanctuary, so there is that at least. You have told me much of the both of them, Porthos, and I am sure that they will be perfectly capable of escaping themselves, and if not, I am positive you will think of something.”

Porthos placed a hand over hers, hoping she could not feel the tell-tale shake that betrayed that he was not quite as composed as he seemed. “And d’Artagnan?” He asked gruffly, “Any news of him?”

“None at the moment, Porthos, which can only be a good thing, surely?”

God, Porthos hoped so.

“I need to get back to the Court,” He decided. “I need to see if d’Artagnan is there, and then figure out how to help Athos and Aramis.”

“If you insist, Porthos, then I shall keep you no longer.”

Porthos rose from his seat and took her hand, kissing the back of it.

“But,” Alice said, “I do have a way in which you could get back to the Court safely.”

“How?”

“We will take my carriage part of the way.” She smiled a sly smile. “They will never suspect it.”

And that was how Porthos found himself riding for the first time in a fancy horse drawn carriage, seated opposite one of the most beautiful and wealthiest women in all of Paris. His day was growing increasingly more absurd by the minute.

Eventually the carriage came to halt, and Alice smiled at him, “It is refreshing to have your company Porthos. You look so uncomfortable being among finery, but I ensure you, you look quite at home and handsome among rich surroundings. More handsome than any of the men who flounce around as 'noble' men. None of them match to you.” She sighed heavily, “It is such a pity your heart lies elsewhere.” She then winked at him in a most unladylike manner. “I do enjoy spending time with you, but I fear that you will not be visiting me for some time?”

“I think it is for the best.” Porthos apologised, sad to have to be saying so. “I could not risk you being suspected of involvement.”

“I understand.” She said, “I do not like it but I understand. As always, I will see what I can do to douse Richelieu’s fire through my contacts, but the man is growing thicker skinned and distancing himself all the more every day. I am not sure how much good I can do.”

“I thank you for trying anyway. It is far more than many will do for us.”

“Well those people are idiots, to be blind to the goodness that I can so plainly see in you.” She leant forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I hope to see you soon. In the meantime I will enjoy the stories and gossip of your daring at the Festival.”

Porthos bowed to her as best he could whilst seated in her carriage, bid her farewell and then ran as fast as he could over the rest of the distance to the Court. He needed to see if d’Artagnan was there. He needed to know he was safe. And then they had to figure out how on earth to save Athos and Aramis.

*

Athos had not believed his eyes when he had seen Anne standing there before him. Not even after he had come to terms with the fact that her ghost appeared to be following him only hours before.

He had not known how to react as she stood before him. He had not known whether to rant and rage or to run away as fast as he could. To feel relieved of the weight of his guilt, to hate her for staying away for too long, to hate her for coming back. She had murdered his brother, but he had loved her. He had loved his brother so had in turn ordered her murder. He had not known how to react when he saw her, as real as he or Aramis, as alive as they were, standing before them with that same beautiful face and those same piercing eyes.

He had not known how to react. So he had not reacted at all. He had not moved. He had not said a word. Because, he was not sure of himself enough to know whether he would explode in anger or break down in tears. He sincerely had not wanted to do either. All he had wanted to do was find the nearest bottle of wine and drain it. And then maybe have another.

But then Anne – no, Milday (and now Athos supposed he knew how Porthos had felt when Athos had suddenly been Athos, and no longer Olivier) - had done what she did best. She had poked and prodded at the sorest spaces of Athos’ guilt-ridden soul and sparked his defence of his actions against her. It reminded him why he had had to do what he had done. That he had done the right thing. But then, of course, she had decided to flip that entire opinion upside down by her last words; _“Ah, ah. Be careful how you respond, Athos. Or I may be even less inclined to help you escape the Notre Dame.”_

Athos chanced a look at Aramis. Aramis was staring at Milady with suspicion. Athos had always been so afraid to tell his lovers anything about Anne. And Aramis had just found out about the darkest of Athos’ secrets in the worst possible way; to meet the secret face to face. But Athos had been surprised at how well Aramis had taken it, and how supportive of Athos he had remained throughout, defending Athos when Athos could not find the words, and allowing Athos his anger at his wife when Athos needed it.

“You want to help us?” Aramis asked, his distrust evident in his voice.

Athos looked back at Milady.

“ _Why_ would you want to help us?” Athos rephrased, watching her closely. After being so close to her for two years, and believing he knew her better than himself, Athos now knew how hard it actually was to read her, because Milady kept her real feelings buried so deep beneath the façades that it was difficult for true emotions to breach the surface. He did not know what her game was, and he did not know what would be in it for her. The last time they had seen each other she had been standing on a crate beneath a noosed rope dangling from a tree and he had turned his horse and ridden away, coward that he was. Why would she want to help him after he had ordered her execution? Why had she not killed him when he was not expected it? Was this all a part of her revenge? Because if it was, then Athos did not want Aramis to be a part of it. Athos would take any punishment for his sins. Aramis should not be affected by them.

“Because, believe it or not, I sympathise with your cause.” She said. “I know what it is like to be judged for what you really are, or what you have had to do to survive.”

The guilt clawing at Athos’ insides increased another notch.

He and Aramis stood there in indecision for a moment longer before Milady rolled her eyes impatiently. “Well? Do you want to escape here or not?!”

Aramis was looking to him for the final decision, and Athos studied Milady carefully, trying to figure out how much of her had changed in the ten years since he had last seen her. How was she here? Where had she been? Who had she been with? How much did she still despise him now? How much was he willing to risk on her word, when it had already lost him his brother?

He weighed his options. Or rather, doubts raced through his head because, at the end of it all, he was still left with the fact that there was no other option than this. Every exit that he and Aramis were aware of was being guarded. They either followed Milady, or were stuck in the Notre Dame for the rest of their days.

“Ok.” He said finally.

Milady needed no other acceptance than that. She nodded sharply. “Follow me.” And she turned without another word, expecting them to follow.

Aramis looked at him again and reached out a tentative hand. Athos caught it and squeezed it, reassuring Aramis that he was alright, before letting it go as they followed her.

She lead them across the wooden floor, under the bells, and up another set of stairs, and then through a series of walls and twisting passages. And then they were descending down a silent, silent staircase that was barely big enough for a grown man to fit through.

“So, are you a gypsy, then?” Aramis asked her. Seemingly desperate to fill the silence. “Are you from Paris?”

“No and no. Just a thief and a murderer.” She responded lightly, her humour harder and dryer than the stone around them. “And from elsewhere.”

“So, what brings you to Paris?”

“Business.”

And then the conversation died again as Aramis gave up and Milady was unwilling to chat.

But Aramis’ questions made Athos wonder just how Milady knew this complicated secret way out of the Notre Dame Cathedral that she ensured Richelieu’s men would not know about. It made him wonder why she had been following them, because that was what she surely had been doing for Athos to have seen her numerous times over the past few days. What was she doing in Paris now? And what was the business she was here for? And how was she still dressed as though she had status? And most importantly, if she had been watching them, on business, and was not originally a gypsy from Paris, did she know about the Court? Did she know where it was, or was it what she was looking for?

Soon, they were at the bottom of the staircase. “It is just through there,” Milady said, motioning through a narrow opening up ahead. “It will lead you out the side that faces the Seine. I suggest you stick to the riverside.”

“Thank you.” Aramis said, though Athos knew that Aramis did not sound as enthusiastic as he usually would, assumedly because he knew how she had hurt Athos. Aramis' care for him warmed Athos slightly from the chill that had gripped him.

Athos watched Aramis walk towards the secret exit, before pulling Milady aside. “Who are you working for?” He asked bluntly. “Are you looking for the Court?”

“I have been helping some powerful people with their business in France for a while.” She said. “My work brought me here a week or two ago. And if my next task is to find the Court, I will look for it.”

Athos let out a snarl, and then she let out a laugh. “Oh Athos, how you have changed. You are so...” She raised an eyebrow, “Savage. Not so different from me, now, are you? I said I will look for the Court, that does not mean I will try hard in my looking, or work hard to find it. I will not be responsible for the deaths of those people - your people, I suppose - no matter what you think of me.”

“Is one of your powerful friends the Judge?”

Milady outright ignored his question, which to him, was answer enough. Instead she said, “It surprised me to see you still wearing my gift. Particularly as it appears that any love you had for me has so clearly left you.”

“I loved you with everything I had.” Athos said, unable to be anything but honest and raw. “Everything. And after…” He paused, “I gave it all up because it meant nothing to me anymore without you. I thought I would never love again I…” He looked past her to where Aramis was waiting out of earshot.

“I have seen you the past few days, Athos. I have watched you. I know that you have found it again.” She said. She sounded almost accusing, like she had not liked being forgotten. “It is clear in your face. But I pray for their sakes that you have more trust in them than you ever did me.” And there was that bitterness again. That assured tone that Athos had been wrong to ever doubt her even when she had been caught red-handed over Thomas’ blooded and lifeless body.

“I am trusting you now.”

“Well, then, it is time to discover whether that was the right decision.”

*

d’Artagnan paced back and forth and back and forth. He tugged at his hair and tried to ignore the whirlwind of emotions inside him that were on the verge of exploding. It had been nearly an hour. A whole hour since he had gotten back and still there was no sign of any of them. He debated going back out into the night to search, but knew how reckless it was, and that his Inseparables would not thank him for yet more irresponsible behaviour. But it was so, so hard to just stay and wait. He could not stop the agitated scream of frustration that forced his way through his clenched teeth.

“What will I do without them?” He asked aloud to himself, his voice shaking with panic, “What do I do? How will I live? How will I _survive_?” He dropped down to his knees, hoping that the painful jolt he felt as his knees hit the stone floor hard would help break through his anxious state. It did not work.

“Oh god.” He whined out, stressful tears finally, finally pushing over his eyelashes and skimming down his cheeks.

“d’Artagnan!” A voice shouted from far away, and d’Artagnan wondered if he had finally lost his mind. He had stood up to Richelieu - danced in front of him and humiliated him - and he had threatened LaBarge…he had to be going mad. The voice had sounded like Porthos. God, he wished it was.

“d’Artagnan!” The call came again, closer this time. And this time, it definitely sounded like Porthos.

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked tearfully, scrubbing at his eyes and looking up.

And suddenly, there Porthos was, standing at the entrance of their room, staring down at d’Artagnan. Porthos looked alarmed to have found d’Artagnan in such a state, but d’Artagnan could not find it in himself to care.

He scrambled to his feet and flung himself at Porthos.

“Oh god, thank god you are alright!” d’Artagnan buried his head in Porthos’ neck, as Porthos brought his arms up to hold him close, a hand rubbing at his back.

“Hey, hey, d’Artagnan? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You weren’t here when I came back.” d’Artagnan told him, his breath hitching and breaking as he gulped down his tears. “I was afraid you’d been taken, that my foolishness had gotten you all killed.”

“Oh d’Artagnan.” Porthos held him tighter, peppering reassuring kisses in his hair, “I should have come back sooner, but I thought I would be the first back even leaving at the time that I did.”

“Do you know where Aramis and Athos are? I’ve been so worried I…”

“Has no-one told you?” Porthos said, prising himself gently from d’Artagnan and d’Artagnan’s face was lifted by gentle fingers. Porthos’ eyes were full of loving concern. “They are safe in the Notre Dame for now. They have claimed sanctuary. Although Richelieu has them trapped, they will not leave until they have an assured way of escape. They will not try anything too risky. And they are together.”

“Thank god.” d’Artagnan whispered again into Porthos’ shirt, breathing him in and trying to calm himself down. “Oh Porthos, I am so, so sorry for what I did today, I…”

“Enough of that, right now.” Porthos scolded, and before d’Artagnan could say another word, Porthos had kissed him. d’Artagnan kissed him back desperately. “You,” Porthos said, breaking away before pressing kisses to d’Artagnan’s lips and face with every word, “Were,” Kiss. “so,” Kiss. “brave,” Kiss. “today.” He stroked the backs of two fingers down d’Artagnan’s cheek. “I am proud of you. And I was worried for you when I did not know where you had run to.”

“Not as worried as I was.” d’Artagnan said, linking his arms firmly around the back of Porthos’ neck, curling his fingers in the soft curls at the back of Porthos’ head, “I love you.” He whispered before initiating biting, hungry kisses, opening his mouth to deepen them further.

d’Artagnan walked Porthos backward until Porthos' back hit the nearest wall. Porthos grinned against his mouth and hoisted him up by the thighs, turning them until d’Artagnan was pressed up between Porthos and the wall. d’Artagnan wrapped his legs tight around Porthos’ waist, not allowing their mouths to part for a moment. He rocked against Porthos’ firm stomach and Porthos moaned softly, “You were so brave today.” Porthos said again, as he reached in to d’Artagnan’s loose red pants and grasped a hold of his hardening cock. d’Artagnan groaned at the feel of Porthos’ sure fingers around him, feeling all that anxiety inside him turn into arousal as the tension searched for a form of release.

“Not like you were.” d’Artagnan breathed out over Porthos’ lips again, before pressing his head back in to the wall as Porthos’ thumb pushed gently over the head of his cock. “You spoke for all our people. You lead us so well.”

Porthos hummed, ever modest, biting carefully at d’Artagnan’s neck. His hand quickened his pace, “Tell me what you need to make you feel better.”

“Just more of this.” d’Artagnan hissed out, clutching at Porthos’ broad shoulders and digging his fingers in. “I just need you close.”

Porthos did exactly as d’Artagnan wanted and inched even closer, space between them only for Porthos’ fist to keep working.

After a moment or two, d’Artagnan’s breath was starting to hitch, all that pent up tension within him begging for a release. He kissed Porthos desperately again, just to make sure that Porthos really was there with him. Porthos kissed him back with equal passion. “We will get them back, d’Artagnan.” Porthos promised, “We will get them back.”

d’Artagnan let out a whine as he came, spilling into Porthos’ hand, burying his head in Porthos’ neck.

“You ok?” Porthos asked after a moment of quiet, filled only by d'Artagnan's panting breaths.

d’Artagnan nodded, not bothering to raise his head from Porthos' shoulder, “Much better.”

Porthos pressed a final kiss to d’Artagnan’s temple before d’Artagnan was carefully set back on his feet and tucked back in to his trousers. “I needed that.” d'Artagnan breathed out, sending Porthos a smile, “Thanks.”

Porthos let out a laugh, “Any time. Seriously.” But then he really was serious again, maneuvering d’Artagnan to lie down on the bed.

“But Athos and Aramis…” d’Artagnan protested, making to sit up again before Porthos pushed him back down with a gentle hand on his chest.

“You have had a long, trying day. You will be no good to them exhausted. Take a moment to rest and calm down. Then come and join me, alright?”

“Ok.”

Porthos frowned, “And you won’t follow me out of here as soon as I leave?”

d’Artagnan shook his head. Porthos smiled at him and bent down to give him another kiss. “Alright, troublemaker, I will see you after your break.”

“Ok.” d’Artagnan murmured, wondering whether Porthos really would be annoyed with him if he did follow him straight away, even as his eyes slid closed.

*

Porthos was deep in plotting with Flea on how to best aid in Aramis and Athos’ escape from the Notre Dame by the time d’Artagnan joined him.

They were just finalising their final distraction tactics, when there was a shout from the tunnels out of the Court and the next thing they knew, Aramis and Athos were standing there as though nothing had ever happened. They looked tired and a little dusty and dirty, but otherwise they seemed completely unharmed.

Porthos blinked at them.

d’Artagnan appeared to be in a similar state of shock. But he broke from it first and bolted across the stone floor towards them, flinging himself at them and pulling them into a three-way hug.

“What the hell?” Flea demanded, pulling Porthos along with her as she marched towards them. “How the hell did you two escape from the Notre Dame? I heard it was guarded better than the King of France himself!”

“We had some inside help.” Aramis grinned at her over d’Artagnan’s head.

“Bloody miracle.” Flea cried out. “You lot have the luck of the bloody devil, I swear.”

Athos was watching Porthos with a look that Porthos could not interpret, but Porthos' relief overrode his curiosity to find out what it meant. He smiled at them. “God, it is good to see you both.”

Flea was right. It seemed like some form of miracle.

Or, as Porthos was to find out the next day, it was maybe not so much of divine intervention as the intervention of a woman who survived execution. Which actually seemed even more nonsensical.

That night the four of them were a muddle of frantic hands and kisses. d’Artagnan was still full of apologies, but they kissed it out of him. Athos and Aramis did not expand on their escape from the Notre Dame, stating that all would be told upon the morning, after the four of them were properly reunited and had had a full night’s sleep. They did not waste their mouths on further words, putting them to better use on each other; worshipping each other’s bodies as though they would not get another chance, and not allowing themselves to think about a day when those chances might desert them. Those fears had been all too real that day, and for a little while, they distracted each other from dwelling on it, or on what Richelieu might do when he found Aramis and Athos had escaped him. And that d’Artagnan and Porthos had escaped him once again.

 

* * *

 

 

**7 January 1482**

 

 

Judge Armand Richelieu waited in the Palace of Justice. The night was still dark, but Richelieu knew it had passed in to early morning. He could not sleep for unbidden thoughts. He did not dare sleep for fear of those unbidden thoughts taking form in his dreams. So instead, he watched the Notre Dame Cathedral and he waited. He waited to hear of the justice gained from the capture of Athos and the traitor's pet witch.

Despite Treville's argument over sanctity, Richelieu did not see why the same rule should have to apply to Athos. A traitorous soldier with a bounty on his head should not receive the protected sanctuary of the church. The man was not righteous and he was not religious. Athos had favoured the gypsies long before he had even become a soldier for Richelieu, the devious drunkard that he was. And Richelieu knew all about Athos, or rather, Olivier d'Athos de la Fere, oh yes. Richelieu had had his creatures collect him information on all the key figures of the Court of Miracles. Of all Richelieu's creatures, the woman, Milady de Winter, had been the most effective in gathering intel on the enemy; on the treacherous insects Richelieu was fighting against.

He knew a lot of Athos. The traitorous soldier, who pretended to fight for Richelieu's cause whilst scheming all along with that Court-dweller and 'King' Porthos Duvallon. Athos had been born a noble, but had been seduced by Duvallon and gyspies like him to their cause and their lifestyle. Richelieu had seen such a thing before; a good, well-meaning man of reliable background dragged down by the gypsies and their unashamed ability to ignite the lowest human instincts. So after the deaths of Athos' family, Athos upped and left his title and lands, and signed up under Treville's command, fighting for Richelieu's cause. Which seemed a noble enough decision, to protect his country from its plague. However, reports started coming to Richelieu of one of his soldiers attempting to talk gypsies out of their arrests, using well-educated lawful arguments and often succeeding in setting the gypsies free. This, of course, was not good. Hence the reason why Richelieu firmly kept Athos out of the Savoy mission.  He could not have his cause opposed by do-gooders spouting law and legislation about the place. Richelieu should have guessed what would become of Athos. Richelieu had given the man the benefit of the doubt due to Athos' birthrights, and assumed that Athos' nature toward arrests was due to his prim and proper upbringing rather than an affiliation with the gypsies. But soon it became clear that Athos had been  drawn to the wiles of the Court by the enticements of those who inhabited it. He had only been in service for a few years, when he betrayed his fellow soldiers and critically injured several of them, in order to rescue his precious Duvallon.

Richelieu had learned about Porthos Duvallon throughout the years. Porthos had been a gypsy in Paris almost as long as Richelieu had been attempting to get rid of the gypsies in Paris. Porthos had been born and bred in the Court. He had grown to a man, and raised to a King, all in Richelieu's line of sight, but not in the reach of his hands. Richelieu and the majority of his men knew Porthos by sight, and yet the man was uncatchable. The closest he had come to finally being in Richelieu's hands, Athos had been there to swoop in like a great, traitorous anti-angel to save him. To Richelieu, Porthos had become almost as strong a symbol in the gyspy colony of Paris than the Court of Miracles. He was strong and brave and righteous and unnaturally handsome, with his exotic appearance and wiles. He was clearly the work of some vicious demon to challenge Richelieu; to irk him and escape him and infuriate him to the point of distraction. To eliminate Porthos, was to truly break the gypsies spirits. The day Richelieu caught Porthos, oh, he would never let him go. And he would torture him and keep him and break him and get his revenge for all those years in which Porthos had evaded his rightful capture. Porthos was the epitome of the gypsies in Paris. He was the embodiment of all their treachery and sin. And one day he would be Richelieu's, and Richelieu could see that day dawning ever sooner.

Richelieu had been unpleasantly surprised by the appearance of the witch. Richelieu had seen what had occurred at Savoy, and it had seemed completely impossible for anyone to have survived it. It had been a swift, necessary operation to catch a disease before it infiltrated the body of Paris. There had been word of the travelling troupe that had been heading toward Paris, and tales of their strange trickery and thefts and bizarre unexplainable performances had preceded them. Richelieu knew the devil's creatures when he heard of them, and it had been a necessary act to save the city from the sin that was approaching it. No-one should have survived it. He saw the aftermath himself. But apparently one had, as he had discovered the day before at the Festival. The survival of the gypsy witch, whom Richelieu had learned was called Aramis, was clearly through the man's black will and magic. That was the only explanation. Richelieu had seen Aramis' performances at the Feast. He had seen the witch's fondness and manipulation of hellfire. He had seen the indifference to the sharp blade of a sword. He had seen the way the man disappeared into thin air. Aramis was not natural. Every inch of him screamed of his witchcraft. That had to be why Richelieu had noticed him that day. That had to be why Richelieu had felt a long-forgotten stirring within him when he had managed to fool and catch the man in the Notre Dame; to have him pressed up against him and a hand on his throat. It had to be the witch's powers making him see things differently. That long-felt want to catch Porthos and Athos had also appeared to have manifested itself somewhat since he had last seen them. And it had to be the witch's influence, surely. It had clearly effected the way Richelieu wanted Porthos' knowing, defiant grin when he had looked at him; and how he appreciated Athos' skills at fighting and his clear appearance of fine breeding. The witch himself, as well, had somehow made Richelieu uncomfortably affected in his seat as he swallowed fire, eyes bright and seducing as the devil's. And most of all, the witch had clearly had influence on young d'Artagnan.

Seeing the dancer d’Artagnan had been a shock to Richelieu, even before he had known he was the boy from the Notre Dame all those years ago. So the shock Richelieu had initially felt had not been through any realisation, no. It had been the shock of such a display of blatant seductiveness. And, Richelieu had been horrified to find, a display that he himself had reacted to. The boy was young, lean, tall and handsome. Tan and dark of hair and dangerously tempting and Richelieu had found his eyes fixed to him as though under some spell. And that surely had to have been why Richelieu had been affected by d’Artagnan the way that he had. There had to be some magic at work. d’Artagnan must have picked something up, must have learnt witchery from Aramis. That had to be the reason why Richelieu had been plagued ever since with such unholy thoughts. Unholy thoughts of that lean body in his bed. That dark hair in his hands. That defiant, angry young man knelt in submission at his feet…

Richelieu shook himself as those thoughts began to creep like vermin back in to his mind again. He needed to get rid of them. No. He needed to get rid of _him._ That boy he should have drowned. He needed to get rid of all of them.  
He needed to confess his unholy thoughts and gain the help he needed, the strength he needed to fight these demons, the very figures of temptation, vice and sin.

“Beate Maria,” He prayed aloud, “You know I am a righteous man. Of my virtue I am justly proud. Beate Maria! You know I am so much purer than the common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd!” He was better than all of them, purer and righteous in his mission to cleanse Paris of what had infected its very core. Today at the Festival had only enforced that. Richelieu was on a virtuous path, so why was he being cursed by these immoral thoughts?

“Then tell me, Maria,” He begged, “Why I see him dancing there. Why his smouldering eyes still scorch my soul.” He remembered d’Artagnan’s dance. How the young man had moved. His hips. His bared skin. His face with that confident little smile. When he had been so close to Richelieu that Richelieu could smell him. “I feel him,” He choked out, “I see him. I can still see the sun caught in his raven hair.” Richelieu stuck his hand in his pocket and found the scarf that d’Artagnan had wrapped about his neck at the Festival. He had, for some reason, (there was some spell on it, he assumed) been unable to let it go. He had twisted it about in his hands far too many times that day, feeling the silk between his fingers and imagining soft tan skin in its place. “And it is blazing in me out of all control. Like…” Richelieu paused to think. To think what these thoughts made him feel like. What that boy made him feel like. “Like fire, hellfire!” He realised, “That is what he has driven into my skin! That is what this burning desire must be...what is causing me to turn to sin!”

He wondered what the angels were thinking of him now. To be distracted so easily in his mission by four men, and this one man in particular. “It's not my fault!” He cried out in his defence, “I am not to blame! It is the gypsy boy, the witch who set this flame!” He thought of d’Artagnan, how he must have been trained from that sad little slip of a boy crying like a baby over his father’s body to this confident, spellbinding figure that he saw that day. He must have been trained in wiles and trickery and seduction by those men who had become his mentors. That notorious Porthos. The treacherous Athos. And that witch who had been so sly that Richelieu had not even been aware of him until the Festival, after so many years since Savoy. Those men had trained d'Artagnan. They were demons sent to test him, the three of them! And they had created the perfect weapon to try and smite him.

“It is not my fault if in God's plan, he made the devil so much stronger than a man! Protect me Maria! Do not let this siren cast his spell! Don't let his fire sear my flesh and bone!” He twisted the scarf in his hands so tight that his fingers began to ache from loss of circulation. He tried to tear it apart, but it would not rip. He marched towards the fireplace at the other end of the room, staring into it and watching the flames dance. He imagined d’Artagnan in them. Imagined all four of them in them. Screaming. And it made him feel so much better.

“Destroy d'Artagnan! And let him taste the fires of hell…” He whispered. But then, a thought occurred to him. d’Artagnan was still young. Surely the influence cast over him by the other three could be undone? Maybe d’Artagnan was not a weapon against him, but a soul to save? To bring back from the abyss. What had been done to him could be undone. Richelieu could make that happen. So he changed his wish; “Destroy d'Artagnan and let him taste the fires of hell…or else let him be mine and mine alone.” It was not the unholy thoughts that guided him now. It was merely a duty he realised he had been given to carry out. He threw the scarf on the fire and watched it crackle and shrivel up. And in the discoloration of the flames, dyed slightly purple by the material it was consuming, Richelieu could almost see d’Artagnan within them, still spinning in that dance of his. That dance with the devil.

Suddenly, a knock on the door had Richelieu spinning around in surprise.

“What is it?” He shouted.

A soldier came into the room, hovering at the doorway like a timid bird. “Minister Richelieu…” The man sounded hesitant. Afraid. “The…the erm…”

“Spit it out!” Richelieu demanded. But he guessed before the man spoke what the soldier was here to tell him.

“The gypsies have escaped. They are nowhere in the Cathedral. They have just…gone.”

Of course they had. One of them was a witch and the other was a man with many faces, disguised behind his masks; noble, soldier, gypsy...traitor. But the question was…

“How?” Richelieu asked himself. “I…” He shook himself. “Never mind.” He glared at the soldier. “Get out you idiot.”

The man darted out the room quicker than a hare, eager to escape Richelieu’s wrath.

“I’ll find them.” Richelieu hissed. “I’ll find them if I have to burn down all of Paris!”

He looked back to the fire, wondering if d’Artagnan was still dancing in his flames, laughing at him for his foolishness of not dragging the pair of them out of the Notre Dame and having them executed where they stood. d’Artagnan was living proof that the sanctuary of the church was being tainted as an escape by thieves and murderers who were not worthy to have it. He had been a fool. But no longer.

“Now, gypsy, it’s your turn.” He spoke to the fire. His mind was made up. His path was clear again. “Choose me or your pyre. Be mine or you will burn.”

*

Far across the city and deep underneath it, d'Artagnan tossed and turned in his sleep;

_Richelieu stood before him. His cold eyes burned with fire and his manic grin was bloody and red. At Richelieu's feet lay Porthos. Porthos who had had his feet cut off so that he could never run from Richelieu again. His hands taken so that he could no longer fight for the justice of his people. His forehead sliced so that he could never wear a crown in the Court again. Porthos' eyes, once so soft and mischievous and full of laughter and life were open and unseeing, staring up at the sky. He had always loved to see the sky, after having the stone ceiling of the catacombs as his sky for most of his life._

_Next to Porthos lay Aramis; utterly still for the first and last time, his beautiful skin and face charred and burned. His soft brown hair gone, his eyes wide open in terror and his mouth open still in a now-silent scream for mercy. Burned at the stake for being a witch. And then there was Athos, lying face down, so that d'Artagnan could not even see his handsome face for a final time, a dagger protruding from his back. Richelieu had made Athos know what it was like to be betrayed, to be stabbed in the back by his own soldier. And d'Artagnan knew that it had taken Athos a long time to die, could see him choking on his own blood even as he begged d'Artagnan not to watch. It had taken them all so long to die._

_d'Artagnan dropped to his knees, wanting his own death to be quick so he could join his lovers faster. They lay so close together and yet they were not touching, they had not died together and it was all so cruelly wrong. The Inseparables needed to be together. And he needed to be with them. He looked up at Richelieu who approached him with his macabre glee and d'Artagnan did not feel fear, just resigned to a fate that he did not deserve and should not have to expect._

_How was Richelieu going to kill him? d'Artagnan wondered. What was fitting for a boy that defied Richelieu at every turn and served as the Judge's reminder of the cost of mercy? Made him curse sanctuary? The boy who escaped him?_

_And that was when d'Artagnan saw his father in the distance, his blood staining the snow covered steps of the Notre Dame. The bells were ringing, chiming out a sad, lonely song. Richelieu was there but Treville was not. Not this time. And there before d'Artagnan was the well. Richelieu was dragging him towards it and d'Artagnan did not fight this time._ It would have to end this way, wouldn't it? _he thought as he fell down, down into the dark. Black water filled his lungs. His last glance up at the circle of sky above him was blocked by Richelieu's laughing face. He despised that that was the last thing he would ever see._

d'Artagnan awoke with a start, lurching upwards as he dragged in heaving lungfuls of air. It was like he could still taste the dank water of the well, still see his lover's lifeless bodies before him. But when he prised open his tear-burned eyes, chest still heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat, he could see Athos and Porthos beside him, in each other’s arms. Dead to the world but not dead from the world. Porthos was softly snoring and Athos twitched in his sleep. He could smell them and see them and hear them and feel them like they were his home. Aramis had stirred beside him, and his arms moved immediately to wrap around d'Artagnan. Aramis' hand came to rest protectively over d'Artagnan's still racing heart. There was a comforting brush of lips over his ear before Aramis began to sing softly to him in Spanish. Aramis always sang to him after he had had a nightmare, which, he reminded himself as he let his eyes close again and relax back into Aramis' alive and unburned body, was all it had been. Back in the darkness of his eyelids he refused to acknowledge the images threatening to be branded there; Porthos' dead, unseeing eyes, Aramis' burned flesh, Athos' blood, Richelieu's smile and a well that had been robbed of his life so long ago. And as Aramis crooned words into his ear that he did not understand yet still knew off by heart, so familiar to him now, he allowed himself to slip into an easier slumber, safe in the knowledge that for now his lovers were alive and safe around him.

He did not allow himself to linger over the inevitable question of how long that could last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to lyricist Stephen Schwartz, for the genius that is the song 'Hellfire', which was used for Richelieu's section of the chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrying on from the end of the last chapter, we are on the morning of 7 January 1482...

The morning was still and quiet and Athos could almost imagine that the frantic, bizarre events of the day before had all been a part of some unbelievable dream. He blinked to full wakefulness, trying to remember if the memories of his wife were merely remnants of a familiar dream, or if she really was wandering around Paris and not a ghost at all. He was about to reflexively move his arm to take a hold of the locket around his neck, before he found that it was pinned down by something. He glanced down to find Porthos sleeping against his chest. d’Artagnan was pressed close to his other side, his breaths even and peaceful, but from the traces of tear-tracks down d’Artagnan’s cheeks and the way he was wrapped up in Aramis’ arms, Athos suspected d’Artagnan had had a nightmare at some point during the night.

Athos looked back up to the stone ceiling above him and wondered what time it was. The lack of daylight down in the Court always made it difficult to calculate the time of day. The stone walls around them were cool, but the blankets had been warmed by the sleeping bodies that inhabited them. Athos was content to remain right where he was. Besides, it was probably for the best that the four of them laid low for a few weeks. And that was just fine with Athos. If they stayed down here then they would not have to face patrols of soldiers or further trouble or, of course, the new threat of potentially running in to his wife. He wondered if he would be able to get away with just staying down in the Court for the rest of his days.

Athos knew that the moment that Porthos and d’Artagnan were awake, they would want to hear the story of how he and Aramis had escaped the Notre Dame. He had no idea how either of them would take it. He hoped that they would react exactly as Aramis had, but the revelation that your lover is actually married to a woman that he had thought he had condemned to death is a pretty drastic one in any situation. He would not blame them if they thought less of him after today. They would finally see the Athos that he saw every time that he looked in to the mirror; ridden with guilt, heavy with a burden that the others had never truly understood about him. But soon they would know. They would know all of his remaining secrets. He was not sure if he was strong enough to lay them bare.

Porthos mumbled something in his sleep as Athos attempted to manoeuvre himself out from underneath him. Athos smiled softly, tracing a thumb across Porthos’ cheek before holding Porthos’ head carefully as he moved it from his chest and down on to the pillows. Porthos did not appear to wake up. Athos pressed a careful kiss to Porthos’ temple before fully extracting himself from the pile of limbs and getting to his feet.

“Whe’ya’goin?” A jumble of words followed him as he went to leave.

Athos rolled his eyes, berating himself for thinking that Porthos would not be alert enough even in sleep to know when someone was moving about the room. The man had grown up in the Court. Athos looked back to find Porthos watching him with one sleepy eye cracked open.

“Just to get us some breakfast.”

Porthos raised a lazy eyebrow. “Ain’t like yout’be the one to rem’mber to eat.” Porthos turned himself over and buried his head into the pillow next to d’Artagnan. “Anyone would think you’re tryin’ to sweeten us’up b’fore your escape story.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.” Athos said.

In truth, Porthos had been spot on as per in regards to Athos’ behaviour. His decision to get food was because Porthos and d’Artagnan were the most susceptible of the four of them to bribery and comforting via their stomachs.

Porthos knew it too, which was why he gave an amused, disbelieving snort before he fell back to sleep again.

Athos shook his head in fond exasperation, before venturing out into the Court in search of breakfast.

It was still relatively quiet in the Court, but Athos knew it would get much busier than usual later on, as he supposed many would have the same idea as he had, and that they would avoid the city above for a while until the inevitable storm in the wake of the Festival had blown over.

Athos passed the liquor stores, which were normally kept under careful watch. This morning it appeared to be unattended. And so, naturally, he was drawn to the nearest crate of wine. His fingers hovered over the neck of the nearest bottle, debating. He tapped the cork with agitated fingers, internally battling with himself against needing one. He had drunk a lot following Anne’s execution, and even in to meeting Porthos and Aramis and moving to the Court. He had been a borderline drunkard. But now it turned out Anne was not dead. So he did not need to drink to relieve and forget his burden, because that burden was no longer there. That was what he told himself. But his relationship with wine was as complicated and addictive as his relationship with Anne. As complicated as his own feelings.

He ended up leaving with two bottles.

He returned to their room with the bottles (which he promptly smuggled into his hamper of belongings) and a box of food items, which he laid down on the stone floor near to the entrance to the room. He sat down on the edge of the bedding and looked across at the three men he loved more than anything in the world, even more than Anne, now. They were all still asleep. Athos debated drinking a cup or two of wine before they all woke up to give himself the strength to face them, but then they would find out about the wine and most likely confiscate it from him. Athos scowled, annoyed at himself for his dependency on wine, and for his dependency on the men before him, which made him so afraid to tell them the truth about his past. He sighed, reaching out and laying his hand on d’Artagnan’s ankle; the nearest thing to him, and stroking the delicate bones of it with his fingers, distractedly thinking about how best to even begin to tell d’Artagnan and Porthos about what he and Aramis had discovered in the Notre Dame.

d’Artagnan stirred, looking down to where Athos was holding his ankle. “Athos?” He asked drowsily, holding out a hand to him, “You ok?”

“Mmm.” Athos hummed, in the stead of giving a straight answer.

“Come back to bed.” d’Artagnan said, his hand still hovering in the air.

Athos leant forward to take d’Artagnan’s hand, but then d’Artagnan gave him a daring grin, grabbing Athos’ wrist and pulling him down on top of them all. Athos let out the most undignified ‘oomph’ as he landed almost back where he had started that morning, just on top of Porthos and d’Artagnan rather than between them.

Porthos laughed, cracking open an eye again and Athos poked him. “Did you plan this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Porthos said, grinning lopsidedly. He looked a lot more awake than he had when Athos had left.

Athos then looked to d’Artagnan’s suspiciously-alert, matching grin. “I would expect it of the pair of you.”

d’Artagnan shrugged as best he could with Athos partially on top of him.

The motion knocked Aramis, who still had his arms around d’Artagnan and the fourth of them grumbled something presumably grumpy in Spanish as he woke up.

“Sorry Aramis.” d’Artagnan looked over at him innocently.

“You should be, disturbing my beauty sleep all the time.” Aramis’ tone was light-hearted, but Athos watched d’Artagnan’s face fall a little before Aramis gathered him up tighter, “Hey, think nothing of it. How did you sleep?”

Athos presumed the conversation between them was alluding to the nightmare Athos had suspected d’Artagnan had had, which meant that Aramis had woken up and most likely sung him back to sleep again with one of his Spanish lullabies. So Aramis’ question to d’Artagnan was actually to check that Aramis’ comfort had worked and that d’Artagnan had slept better for the remainder of the night. Athos did not know of a time when Aramis’ perception to nightmares and his ability to sooth them did not successfully banish a nightmare from any of them. It always meant that the three of them always made the utmost effort to care for Aramis if he ever woke from a nightmare himself.

“I slept well, thank you.” d’Artagnan confirmed gratefully, before looking back up at Athos, “Porthos says you went to go and get food to distract us from whatever it is you don’t want to tell us about yesterday.”

Athos sent Porthos a glare that held little heat, because the bastard was right as always. Porthos just smiled back, his grin softer now. “You know that whatever it is you tell us, ever, will not do a single thing to make me love you any less.” Porthos told him. His voice was brutally honest and sincere. Athos’ heart stuttered at the intensity of the statement, as it always did when one of them declared their unwavering love for him. Porthos tended to do it the most. The man was a natural at saying all the right things and using words that could sweep you off your feet.

“You know that goes the same for me.” Aramis told him, having already discovered Athos’ secrets and proven as such. “And d’Artagnan worships the ground you walk on, so it will be the same for him too.”

“Hey!” d’Artagnan’s protest held no force whatsoever. “It’s true though.” He said, not the least bit ashamed by such admittance. Athos smiled at him and d’Artagnan pushed himself up to kiss him.

“Tell them, Athos.” Aramis encouraged. “They will support you just as I did, believe me.”

“Support you?” Porthos asked, “What on earth happened yesterday? I knew there was something amiss with how secretive you both were about your escape.”

Athos became aware of all three of them now watching him closely. He sighed. It was now or never. “Alright.” He said, shifting back so that he was longer lying on top of them, allowing the other three to prop themselves up, so that they were sitting in a circle. Athos swallowed. How was he supposed to start? And then it came to him. “The three of you already know that Athos is not my real name.”

“It’s Olivier.” Porthos said immediately. That was how Porthos had known him first.

“Olivier d’Athos de la Fere.” Athos expanded.

“Nice to meet you, Olivier.” d’Artagnan said easily, and Athos could not help but give him a small smile. It was this inability of the others to ever really judge him or each other that made Athos hope that all his concerns were unfounded, but there was still a little voice in the back of his head that whispered _what if?_

And so, Athos prepared himself to lay his past bare for the first time; to let them know everything. “And you all know I grew up in a noble family not far from Paris with my parents, and my brother, who Porthos remembers.”

Porthos nodded in response, watching Athos closer than ever before, clearly not sure why Athos was revealing all this now, but intrigued by what he was saying regardless.

“My brother, Thomas, and I once went on an excursion to some neighbouring cities. It was 1968, so I had just turned eighteen. Whilst we were travelling I met a young woman named Anne and I…” Athos thought back to that day. Anne had been of a similar age, in a pretty blue dress and ribbons in her curly brown hair. It had been her smile that had drawn Athos to her first, however. It had been a wide, daring smile, full of challenge and life. It was not as poised a smile as all the young women Athos had been introduced to by his parents. Not as perfected and socially trained. She was carefree and wild and Athos, well… “I was immediately smitten.” He admitted.

It was not until that moment that Athos supposed that it was the overall attitude of Anne that had drawn him to her, not just her smile. And he realised that it had not been dissimilar to what Porthos had been like in all their early encounters. He found himself looking to Porthos again in his surprise at his revelation. Porthos, however, was looking perplexed, “Was she the woman I saw you with that time?”

“It will have been, yes.” Athos said. “My father had passed away earlier that year, and my mother not long afterward, so the estate came to me. Anne and I were married less than a year after we met. We were married for about three years.” Athos watched for Porthos’ reaction. He saw the surprise in Porthos’ face.

d’Artagnan was glancing between the two of them, before asking, “What happened?”

Athos closed his eyes, trying to summon the courage to take himself back there, let alone the others, “Thomas had gotten on well with Anne in the beginning. He had liked her and thought she was good for me. But then he grew suspicious of her all of a sudden. He never told me why exactly, I assumed he had been tipped off by someone but did not want to burden me with it until he was sure. But as it turned out, Anne was not who she said she was. She was not of position and had been a thief before I met her.” He let out a humourless laugh and looked up at the three thieves before him. “But before you judge me, it was not for that reason that I…” He shook his head, “She murdered Thomas.”

Suddenly, there was a hand clasping his, and he looked down to see Porthos’ fingers entwined with his. When he looked up at Porthos, the other man’s eyes were glistening. “I am so sorry, Athos.” Porthos whispered, “I had no idea. I know how much you cared for him.”

Athos gave a shuddering breath, knowing that he was probably looking increasingly distant as he spoke, but unable to stop himself as he was caught up in it all again. “She was afraid of what he knew and what she would lose if he told me. I do not know whether it was me or my inheritance that she was afraid of losing most. I never thought to ask.” Well, he had a chance to ask her now, he bitterly supposed. “Regardless, I caught her bloody-handed over his body. I had no choice but to order her to be executed.”

“What?” d’Artagnan asked. He sounded in shock. Athos would not blame him for judging him harshly for his actions against her. As Milady had pointed out the previous day, he was one among many thieving and murderous criminals in the Court. But then d’Artagnan reached for his other hand, and Athos started in surprise.

“I will be honest…you are all taking this far better than I imagined you might.” He said hoarsely. “For what we accused her of.”

“That was then, this is now.” Porthos dismissed immediately. “She killed your brother, Athos.”

“And for it she was hung.” Athos admitted, “But I could not watch it happen. I turned my horse around and rode away as the noose was looped around her neck.”

“Oh god, Athos.” Porthos brought Athos’ hand up to his mouth, simply pressing it there as he watched him. Finally he pulled Athos’ hand away from his lips just enough to ask, “Is that when you became a soldier?”

Athos nodded. He then looked to Aramis, who nodded at him silently, encouragingly. “Now we come to when Aramis and I were in the Notre Dame yesterday.” He watched Porthos and d’Artagnan glance at each other, clearly confused at the time-jump in Athos’ tale.

“Richelieu had locked us in after Treville saved our necks. We were searching for a way out and it was beginning to look futile. We went up to where the bells are, and then, there she was.”

They all sat in stunned silence for a moment before d’Artagnan asked slowly, “What do you mean ‘there she was’? You mean Anne? But she…died?”

“That was what Athos said to _her_.” Aramis said.

d’Artagnan was staring at him with his mouth open. Porthos looked little less bemused. Athos knew what an absurd story it sounded. He was living it, after all. “She was not executed. Apparently when I had turned away unable to watch, she somehow talked the executor out of going through with it…I do not know.”

“And she has stayed away from you all this time?” Porthos asked, “Having seen the guilt you bear, I would have said she has been cruel to you. But that she has stayed away has allowed you to move on. So I do not know whether it is a good thing or not.”

“That is exactly how I feel.” Athos admitted tiredly. “The long story short, she showed us a way out of the Notre Dame that neither we nor Richelieu’s men knew about. How she knew about it I do not know, but I am pretty certain that she is now working for Richelieu. She said she was in Paris on business and has been working for some notable figures in France for the past ten years. She is here as his creature, I am sure of it. It has kept her protected and in high position.”

“So can we trust her?” d’Artagnan asked. “If she helped you both?”

“I do not dare to try and interpret her motives.” Athos admitted, “I know nothing of how her mind works, not like I thought I did.” His hand flew up and closed around the locket before he could stop it and he knew immediately that the three of them had clocked the movement and deduced now why he wore it. He felt the need to explain himself, “I wore this in the memory of…” he sighed, “Of brighter times with her. It was also as a punishment, I suppose. And then force of habit of feeling lost without it there.”  
He looked at the three men in front of him. Aramis looked just as he had yesterday, completely at ease with Athos’ secrets. Porthos was looking at him sadly, and Athos knew it was because Porthos was upset that Athos had carried all those secrets for all those years on his own. d’Artagnan however, was still looking at the locket in Athos’ hand, and he seemed to be hurt. He had the look of a kicked puppy about him like he was afraid he was going to be abandoned. Athos knew what the issue was immediately, “After I thought Anne had died, I believed that I never could or would love again. But after a surprisingly short time,” Athos stroked his thumb over Porthos’ knuckles, “Porthos proved me wrong. And then Aramis. And then you, d’Artagnan.” He then squeezed d’Artagnan’s hand. “And after yesterday I realised that I had no love left for her at all. All my love is right here.”

Athos was startled by Porthos surging forward to kiss him, almost knocking him backwards. Athos met the kiss in relief, letting go of d’Artagnan’s hand to hold Porthos’ face.

“I cannot believe,” Porthos said, as he broke away, “That you have carried that burden on your own for so long. You know you could have told us.”

“I know.” Athos breathed guiltily, “I was just afraid of what you would…”

“As I said before,” Porthos interrupted firmly. “There is nothing that any of you could ever do that would make me love you any less. And god, do I love you a lot.”

Athos finally broke into his first true smile in what felt like days, dragging Porthos forward to kiss him again.

“I have loved you since you were Olivier.” Porthos admitted when they parted again. “And I love you more now that you are Athos.”

And that was one of the most wonderful things Athos could have heard. Because for so long Athos saw himself as a broken, drunken, irredeemable version of a confident, enthusiastic and quick-to-smile young man who had once had the world at his fingers. The only thing that Athos had that trumped over Olivier was the love of the men before him. And if that was the case, then Athos decided he was happier than Olivier could have ever been.

“About that…” Aramis broke Athos and Porthos’ moment with an awkward cough. “I had best admit a thing or two to you all.”

They all turned to look at Aramis. Athos wondered if Aramis was finally going to expand on the comment he had made to Milady the day before; that they all had names and lives in the past that they did not have now. Athos did not have to wait very long at all to find out…

“I thought you should all be aware that I was actually baptised as René d'Herblay. I only took the name of Aramis when I joined the travelling troupe.”

It was Athos’ turn to stare in shock. But he was not alone in that. Athos had always known that ‘Aramis’ was not Aramis’ full or only name, but now that it had been revealed, it was still rather surprising. Athos was trying to imagine calling Aramis René, just as he supposed, Aramis and d’Artagnan looked at him and tried to imagine calling him Olivier.

Porthos was just looking at them all, longsuffering. “René.” He repeated, before he looked at Athos, “And Olivier.”

“And my first name is Charles.” d’Artagnan piped up to remind them all.

Athos felt a warm fondness for Porthos, the only one of them to have grown up in truly poor conditions, the one of them who spent so much of his life running and hiding and the most requiring of another identity, yet the only one of them that had one, honest name.

Porthos suddenly burst out laughing, before pointing to each of them in turn. “Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan. Olivier, René and Charles.” He regarded them for a moment, considering. “Olivier, René and Charles.” He said again, as though testing the names out. “No offence, guys, but I think I prefer Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan.”

“I think I speak for the three of us when I say that we do too.” Aramis said confidently.

“Why did you change your name Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked what Athos was also incredibly curious to know.

Aramis looked at d’Artagnan fondly, tracing two fingers up and down the soft skin of d’Artagnan’s inner arm. “I never did tell you what happened to my parents and grandmother, did I?”

Athos managed to refrain from rolling his eyes at Aramis’ question. It had been long established that for all of Aramis’ grand, complex tales, there were still parts of his life they knew nothing about, and Aramis always seemed surprised when they did not know about one thing or another. ‘I am sure I had told you that’ he would say, like he had not just revealed something none of them had had the slightest idea about. But not this time. Aramis had purposefully kept the fates of his family from them for years.

“I was a bit…promiscuous when I was young.” Aramis smiled at them all, as though to say ‘typical me’, but it was not one of Aramis’ usual bright smiles. It did not reach his eyes. And Athos got the distinct feeling that this story was not going to be a happy one. “A girl from my village that I had been intimate with fell pregnant. Her name was Isabelle.” Aramis got a fond far-away look in his eye as he thought of her. Athos found that he was now the one exchanging surprised looks with the other two in the face of this brand new revelation. “She was a lovely girl, and beautiful. I did care for her but I did not love her like she did me. I was only fifteen and was too young for the ties and responsibilities of raising a family. And I was in the midst of learning magic from my grandmother. I had so much I wanted to do. But I told Isabelle I would give it all up for her and my child. I was prepared to, as well. So prepared. I nearly even went through with a wedding after her father found out and demanded it of me.” He looked misty-eyed all of a sudden, and his voice grew sad and heavy. “A few weeks before the wedding she lost the child. And suddenly everything went crazy. Her father accused me and my grandmother of casting a spell against her and that was why she lost the baby. That we had cursed her. The rumours against us built and built and the suspicion spread and…” He paused, a tear spilling down his cheek, “My parents were trapped in their house as it burned. My grandmother died from dunking – they were testing her ability to float, you see - some old test about witches. She drowned. And I…Well Isabelle begged with her father for my life. I was released and banished. So I joined the travelling troupe, changed my name, and never went back.”

Athos was speechless. For all his past woes, he had had absolutely no idea that Aramis had been hiding such terrible, devastating secrets of his own. Aramis had been plagued with accusations of witchcraft for far longer than Athos had ever imagined, and yet he still practiced what he was passionate about, even after it had ended so badly for his grandmother and parents. d’Artagnan was clutching at Aramis with a grave and haunted look in his eyes that Athos could not figure out.

“Anyway,” Aramis sniffed, “That was that. Isabelle joined a nunnery, I believe, and got away from that bastard of a father.” Athos then felt Aramis’ teary gaze upon him, “You are not the only one who feels responsible for the death of loved ones, my love. You are not alone in that.”

Athos found himself moving forward to take Aramis in to his arms, pressing Aramis’ head under his chin so he could hold him as close as possible.

“Oh Aramis, I am so sorry that I asked.” d’Artagnan sounded mortified, but Aramis pulled him in to the hug a second later to show that there was nothing to apologise for.

Porthos was watching them all in dismay. “You have all suffered so much.” He said, his voice filled with a compassionate, quiet sorrow.

“You are one to talk. You were an orphan long before any of us.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Porthos snuffled.

“Oh Porthos,” Aramis said, when Porthos had not responded wittily to Aramis’ comment.

Athos tilted his head and Porthos took the hint, moving toward them all and joining their hug. Porthos buried his head into Athos shoulder, breathing him in and pressing a kiss to his neck. Athos smiled softly against his hair.

“Oh, and that was not one of the things I even wanted to tell you about.” Aramis’ voice was muffled under d’Artagnan’s tight hug.

“Whatever else could there be?” Porthos cried out miserably. “If any of you make me cry any more today I will not thank you. And I’ll be a mess for the rest of the day.”

“Sorry.” Aramis said, moving to rub a fierce hand into one of his eyes, before composing himself quickly; a troubling talent of his. “Erm…well at one point yesterday, before Athos’ wife made her appearance, Athos and I split up to search for a means of escape.”

Athos looked down at Aramis, curious as to what had happened whilst they had been apart. Aramis had not said anything before now. “And?”

“I had my first conversation with the charming Judge Richelieu.”

“What?!” The hug was broken up in an instant, and Aramis was left sitting in the middle looking around at them all awkwardly.

“He came back in to the church somehow when I was praying and caught me when I got up to find you, Athos. He threatened us mainly because he was smug in his certainty that he had caught us once and for all. But he mentioned the four of us. He said something strange about us ‘clouding his mind with unholy thoughts’? And he blamed d’Artagnan for it most of all.”

Athos blinked. Was Aramis saying what Athos thought he was saying? Had the Judge truly been implying he had been having unholy thoughts that were…what? _Sexual_ in nature?

“Well that’s disturbing.” Porthos said.

d’Artagnan looked nervous. “I told you all this was my fault.” He looked uncomfortable at what Richelieu had said about them, and him in particular.

“And we have told you it is nothing of the sort.” Athos told him bluntly. He hid how concerned he was about how thoroughly d’Artagnan had appeared to have caught Richelieu’s ‘attentions’. “But we really must be cautious with how we proceed with all of this. Porthos?”

Porthos was nodding. “We do not know what Richelieu has plotted since yesterday. We should lay low until we know if he is up to anything or has increased patrols. We should definitely avoid him if he has decided the four of us in particular are an issue…” Porthos shuddered, “Unholy thoughts?” He looked at Aramis in bemusement, “ _Really_? Us and Richelieu?!”

“That is what he said.” Aramis shrugged.

Porthos shook his head. “Bloody obsessive maniac, he is.” He muttered, before starting up again. “And if Athos’ wife…” He broke off again to look at Athos, “Is she still your wife, then?”

“I suppose by law she is.” Athos said. “We never divorced. But she is married to Olivier d’Athos de la Fere. And I am not him anymore, so we shall say not.”

Apparently Porthos was convinced with Athos’ firm answer, because he carried on again, “And if Athos’ Anne…”

“She goes by Milady, now.”

“Milady.” Porthos held his hands up as though exasperated with the overload of new names and information. “If Milady is working for Richelieu, we should keep an eye out for her as well, and warn others that she may be trying to find out about us. Seem fair?”

“Lying low with you three in our rooms and the Court for days?” Aramis looked delighted for the first time all morning, “It sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

“Right.” Porthos said, “And before I kiss you all and we help each other realise that we have been fools to keep secrets from each other for so long…” Athos found himself at the end of a particularly pointed look. “Has anyone got anything else to admit to?”

“Erm…” d’Artagnan started, and Athos almost started laughing from the absurdity of it all. “Actually, I hope you all don’t mind but I…erm…I gave Constance the woven pendant.” d’Artagnan had closed his eyes, as though expecting the three of them to suddenly start ranting and raving at him for doing something so foolish.

Athos could see not issue with it at all, and when he looked to the other two, it appeared they were both of the same opinion.

“Good.” Porthos said. And d’Artagnan squinted his eyes back open at him in surprise. Porthos shrugged, “You want to keep her safe, and she has the upmost trust from us all. You made a good decision.”

“I know I did.” d’Artagnan breathed out a sound of relief, as though the thought of telling them had been plaguing him since the moment he had given it to her. “I am glad you all agree. She said she will give it back the moment this all blows over. Which it will, right?”

Athos watched Porthos loop an arm over d’Artagnan’s shoulders and hold him close. “I hope so, d’Art.”

“So, Porthos.” Aramis began, leaning back on his arms, raising a coaxing eyebrow, “Anything you want to admit to us all whilst we are sharing?”

Porthos looked thoughtful, “Not really. Other than that if I ever felt so inclined, Lady Alice would totally marry me.”

Athos laughed, and when Porthos saw that he was he grinned back at him. Aramis just looked unsurprised, “Can you blame her?”

“I can’t.” d’Artagnan said.

Porthos gave them one of his endearing lopsided smiles, his eyes crinkled at the corners and bright at the compliment. Athos really, really wanted to kiss that smile. The smile he had known for so many years; belonged to the man who he had trusted and loved and relied upon for so many years. But he apparently was not the only one, because d’Artagnan beat him to it.

Porthos made a pleased noise against d’Artagnan’s lips. And Athos watched Aramis sit himself up properly to watch. Athos moved over to Aramis, and looked into soft brown eyes that hid as many guilty secrets as him.

“I told you they would not judge us our secrets.” Aramis told him softly.

Athos leant forward quickly to give Aramis a kiss that was equal measure desperate and grateful. One of Aramis’ hands came to rest against Athos’ neck and Aramis leant back on one arm, angling his head to allow Athos to deepen the kiss as much as he liked. Athos’ hand landed on its usual spot on Aramis’ body; the Savoy-scar on Aramis’ side. And just like always, Aramis gasped slightly when Athos’ hand landed on his skin.

Athos used the break to whisper, “Thank you.”

Aramis murmured something dismissive, before surging into another kiss.

Athos tilted his head back with a groan when Aramis finally left his mouth and started to trail soft lips down Athos’ neck, a careful hand pushing Athos’ hair and earring back and out of the way. Athos glanced to his left to find Porthos doing much the same action to d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan met his eye and grinned at him, carefree and blissful under Porthos’ attentions. Athos was not able to maintain eye contact for long, however, because Aramis had shifted himself into Athos’ lap and that was more than distracting.

“Porthos.” Aramis spoke against Athos’ skin without even lifting his head, “d’Art. Fancy coming to help me show Athos how much we love him? He doubted us for moment.”

Athos opened his mouth to argue, but abruptly stopped himself when Porthos and d’Artagnan immediately started to move, and he figured that he would most likely enjoy what his lack of argument against Aramis’ statement might bring him.

When d’Artagnan’s mouth descended on the other side of his neck, Athos knew he had definitely made the right decision. He opened his eyes lazily to look at Porthos, who was watching him fondly. And Athos felt that surge of long-felt affection for his oldest friend return to him again. Their stories had been entwined for so long, and Porthos had impacted on Athos’ life in ways that Athos had never really stopped to think about before. And god, he loved him. He loved all three of them. And he had meant every word of what he had said; that he had no love left for Anne, because his heart belonged to these three men now. And despite Richelieu, despite the bounty on his head, he would not rather be anywhere else but here. He was happiest here. He smirked at Porthos over the top of the heads of Aramis and d’Artagnan, and raised his eyebrow slightly, challenging and in anticipation of seeing what Porthos would do next.

Porthos growled at him playfully, moving forward to kiss Athos soundly. “And how would Athos like me to show him how much I love him? And have always loved him?” Porthos asked, focus intent on Athos’ face.

Athos closed his eyes as he bit back a moan. “You know how.” He said.

Porthos lips were hot and loving at the back of Athos’ neck as he pushed in to him and Athos dropped his head forward with relief, his sweaty forehead meeting his braced arms. He did not often bottom, and if he did it was mainly for Porthos. It was always such an overwhelming feeling, feeling so close and intimate with someone else. He understood why Aramis and d’Artagnan liked it so much. And he craved that closeness right then, needed it, and with Porthos especially because after so many years of keeping secrets from him, Porthos had been patient enough to wait until he was ready to tell them. He was equally grateful to d’Artagnan for being so easily trusting and understanding, and to Aramis for letting him know that he carried a similar survivor’s guilt, so that Athos did not feel so alone.

“That feel good?” Porthos asked him as he began to move.

“Better than good.” Athos reassured him, before pulling d’Artagnan forward to him and mouthing at the inside of his thigh. d’Artagnan flopped backwards on to Aramis with a moan.

And he did feel good, right there between them; surrounded by the men who did not care about his past. They cared  about him, not how he had gotten there in the first place.

And later, when they spent the day lazing around, eating and snoozing and bantering with each other, he realised that he actually felt safe enough to be open with them. He felt safe with them there in the Court of Miracles.

It was just a shame that the Court would become less of a safe haven to them in only a few days’ time.

* * *

 

**8 January 1482**

 

News reached them that Judge Richelieu had given orders for the four of them to be found. There were three arrests of gypsy groups that day. Each group was reportedly offered ten pieces of silver to give up Porthos, Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan. Each group refused. Each group was arrested on the spot.

 

* * *

 

**10 January 1482**

 

The offer had gone up to twenty pieces of silver and then thirty. Still every arrested gypsy refused to betray them.

Tensions were running high in the Court, despite everyone rallying together now more than ever. The tensions were due to fear for their people rather than against those Richelieu seemed to really want to find. Porthos was still looked to for leadership and still as respected. Well, to most.

A couple of the men who had been arrested had been close friends of LaBarge. LaBarge and a small group of the Court were becoming increasingly angered by what was going on. And their tempers were beginning to fray.

On the night of the 10th the Court held a night of gambling, which included ring fights. LaBarge challenged Porthos, and the fight got much uglier than usual, as both found themselves fighting for more than just bets. d’Artagnan had told Porthos of his confrontation with LaBarge and Porthos was already frustrated by LaBarge’s erratic behaviour.

Porthos staggered back against the makeshift barrier of the ring, his lip and eyebrow bleeding and his face bruised. Aramis was there in a moment, always one to revel in Porthos’ superior strength. Aramis had bet pretty much everything he possessed on Porthos, as usual. LaBarge had stumbled back to the opposite side of the ring, also looking worse for wear, and they stood there watching each other for a moment, caged together like lions, taking a breather before they clashed again.

Aramis grasped Porthos’ shoulders and leant forward over the barrier to whisper in his ear, “If you win this fight you will avenge yourself, and d’Artagnan. If you win this fight you can fuck me all night long.”

“I always get to fuck you.” Porthos growled out, wiping his fist over his face and getting a trail of blood on the back of his hand.

“And then afterward, maybe I’ll fuck d’Artagnan whilst you watch.” Aramis added, patting his hand over Porthos’ pectoral.

“I think I could work with that.”

“Thought you might.” Aramis was watching LaBarge with a look of mocking distaste. Aramis was an extremely handsome man, but when he wanted to be, for the people he disliked, he could look downright sinister, with his almost constantly kohl-eyes and dark grin and his harsh whip-sharp words. “The man is a snake and a thug. So show him who’s boss.” Aramis encouraged in to his ear. “Show him who’s King.”

That night Aramis went home with everything he had bet, and everything he had won. Porthos was a state, but calmer and confident from his victory; his triumphant grin full of teeth stained red from his split lip. Aramis cleaned him up carefully before Porthos claimed his prize. When Porthos had exhausted himself, he sat back with Athos and they watched Aramis fuck d’Artagnan, who was terribly smug that LaBarge had been beaten and was more than happy to be involved in Porthos’ reward. Athos tasted of wine more and more since the Festival, though the others had never actually seen him drink any.

 

 

* * *

  

 **11 January 1482**

 

The next day brought the first Court execution since before the Feast of Fools. Porthos, Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan were first alerted to a commotion out in the Court. It was not like the usual commotion and hubbub, because people were singing. And they were singing a familiar song.

Back in 1475, Aramis had been playing lute to d’Artagnan, hoping to cheer him up on the day of his father’s birthday. That day a spy of the Judge had found the Court and had been captured in the entrance tunnel. (This was something that endlessly angered the Judge, because in actual fact, his spies had been finding the Court for years, it was just that they never left it again once they had found it, not remaining alive long enough to tell him). Porthos had been there when Aramis had arrived to observe the spy as he was dragged in to the Court. Porthos had been there when Aramis had then begun to improvise a little song:

 _‘Maybe you’ve heard of a terrible place,_  
_where the scoundrels of Paris collect in a lair._  
_Maybe you’ve heard of that mythical place_  
_called the Court of Miracles. Hello, you’re there!_  
  
_Where the lame can walk,_  
_and the blind can see,_  
_but the dead don’t talk,_  
_so you won’t be around to reveal what you’ve found._  
  
_We have a method for spies and intruders,_  
_rather like hornets protecting their hive._  
_Here in the Court of Miracles_  
_where it’s a miracle if you get out alive.’_

The song had gone down extremely well, and then it had stuck. And Aramis’ ditty had been sung ever since to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who tried to infiltrate the Court, before they never left it again. On the whole Porthos had grown rather fond of the song, though the fact that the children of the Court had taken to singing it like it was a nursery rhyme was a little disturbing, if Porthos was being honest.

Hearing it now, though, when Richelieu’s net seemed to be closing tighter and tighter around them, filled Porthos with dread. It meant someone had found the Court. He wondered how many more spies would turn up as Richelieu’s hunt grew ever more determined.

They entered the Court and headed straight for the gallows. The crowd that had gathered in the Court parted for Porthos and the others as they approached.

Charon and Flea were already there, and Flea whistled when she caught sight of Porthos’ battered face. Porthos rolled his eyes at her. “Flea, Charon, what is it?”

Charon jerked his head to where two men were holding on to a third man between them. “Intruder. One of Richelieu’s, no doubt about it. Flea has seen him before.”

Flea nodded in support, looking to Porthos, “I heard that he was involved in some of the arrests this week.”

Porthos frowned and looked at the man. The spy was angry, rather than scared, which really did not help his case. He was fighting against the men that held him, sending them all glares that betrayed what he thought of the people around him; that he thought they were all scum and vermin. If he was not gagged, Porthos knew he would most likely be hurling all manner of threats and insults at them. He had a look about him that Porthos immediately disliked, and he looked familiar too, now that he thought about it. Porthos feigned boredom and shrugged, “So we gunna sentence him or what?”

Charon grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, “Let’s get this over with.”

“Porthos,” Athos caught his arm and spoke quietly in to his ear, “Are you sure?”

Porthos nodded shortly and shrugged out of Athos’ grip. He knew Athos was worried about him, and that Aramis and d’Artagnan would be as well. They knew he did not like executing people. It made him feel no better than Richelieu. But if it was to protect his people and the Court, he did whatever was necessary. But that was another reason they worried for him, because there were also the odd times that he did get a sense of sick satisfaction at watching one of Richelieu’s creatures die.

He did not look back at Athos, Aramis or d’Artagnan as he climbed up on to the stage behind Charon, Flea, and their prisoner.

“Gather round, everybody!” Flea shouted to the crowd, “There is good _noose_ today!” A laugh rippled through the crowd at the jest. “We’ve gone and caught ourselves a spy!”

The crowd clapped.

Not wanting to draw it out any longer than it needed to, Porthos turned to address the spy, but loud enough so that the crowd could hear, “Justice is swift here in the Court of Miracles. Consider the three of us as the lawyers and judge all in one. We like to get the trial over with quickly.”

Charon gave the spy a macabre smile as he looped the noose around the spy’s neck. “Because it’s the sentence that’s really the fun.” Charon told him.

Porthos glanced down at Athos, worried what was going through the man’s head after only so recently revealing about not being able to watch his wife’s execution in the same manner. Athos was staring pointedly off to one side, flanked by Aramis and d’Artagnan who were watching the stage with identical unreadable expressions.

“Any last words?” Porthos asked the spy, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible.

The man shouted angrily through the gag in his mouth. None of his words were comprehensible.

“That’s what they all say.” Flea sighed dramatically.

And that was it. Charon pulled the lever to release the hatch under the man’s feet, and the rope suddenly tightened, snapping back as it reached its full length. Porthos did not linger like the others to cheer and watch the man swing. He started straight back down the stairs again, feeling suddenly sick, imagining all the arrested gypsies that may be facing similar fates right at that moment.

He stalked past Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan, hating his position as King; hating Richelieu; hating being a gypsy; hating everyone who was not. His fists coiled up in anger and the bruises in his face were throbbing. “Let’s go.” He said to them, and they immediately followed him.

Athos was not alone in his drinking that night.

* * *

 

**13 January 1482**

 

Porthos lurched to his feet when he heard the macabre lyrics once again fill the Court:

  
_‘….We have a method for spies and intruders,_  
_rather like hornets protecting their hive._  
_Here in the Court of Miracles_  
_where it’s a miracle if you get out alive.’_

“You have got to be kidding!” He said.

Athos and Aramis got to their feet beside him, their faces grim.

This had been the fourth time since that first execution. Porthos was getting more and more angry and tired and burdened with it. Every time there was news of more captured gypsies, there seemed to be some spy or soldier caught in the Court to take their place. And Porthos had grown suspicious that during the last three occasions the ‘spies’ had not found and infiltrated the Court at all, and that they had been dragged in from the streets. It was why he had decided that he, Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan take turns on lookout duty, to find out for sure what was going on. That was where d’Artagnan was now, so hopefully he would have witnessed whatever had just occurred, for there to be yet another execution about to begin.

“How can this be possible?” Athos asked, looking to Porthos for answers.

“Let’s go and find out.” Porthos ground out. d’Artagnan would have the answers for them.

The only problem was, Porthos had absolutely no idea how to act once he knew one way or the other. If it was true that people were risking the discovery of the Court in order to get revenge on Richelieu’s men, how was he supposed to react? He would be furious with them if that was the case, but how could he act angrily without the blame of the whole sorry situation flying back at him?

He had been wound tight as a rope the last couple of days and his lovers had noticed. They had been treading around him carefully, but not so much as to make him feel like they were avoiding him. They were trying to support him without being overbearing. But they should not have to tiptoe around him. As King, surely his word was the final one? Surely if he told the Court dwellers to stop being so foolish, they would?

But that was the unpredictability of ruling over thieves and cutthroats, he supposed. You never really could quite tell.

“Porthos,” Athos started as Porthos made to go and sort out this latest mess. He turned around to look at him, and Athos stalled, frowning, clearly sympathetic of the corner Porthos had been backed in to as a leader of the Court. “Be careful.” He said.

Porthos nodded at him, allowing him a small smile, before marching across the Court.

“What is the meaning of this?” He called out the moment he was close enough to find LaBarge and few others dragging two men in soldier’s garb in to the Court. He stopped in front of them, blocking their way up to the gallows, knowing Athos and Aramis were right behind him.

“We caught them at the entrance to the Court.” One of the men told him gruffly.

“They are lying!” d’Artagnan shouted as he skidded into the Court from the entrance tunnel. “I saw them Porthos, I saw them drag them in from the city.”

“What?!” Porthos bellowed, glaring at the men in front of him.

“Oh of course,” LaBarge snarled, before addressing his friends, “We will have no hope here gents. Our noble King is not going to take our words over that of his boy.”

“Watch your mouth, or I’ll knock the teeth out of it.” Porthos threatened, taking a step towards LaBarge. “I’ll knock you down like I did the other day in the ring, but this time I’ll make sure you don’t get up again.”

“Hang on, whoa.” Flea was suddenly there, smaller than both LaBarge and Porthos, but stepping between them regardless, her small hands held up against each of their chests. “LaBarge, back down. Porthos, what the hell? Just let them kill the bastards.”

“No.” Porthos snapped, “Not if they are dragging them here off the streets. That will be how Richelieu finds the Court! All it will take is for one of us to be off their guard – say dragging a kicking and screaming _soldier_ off the street – to be followed back here. Are you all mad?”

“You are the mad one!” One of LaBarge’s men accused. “It is your fault that Richelieu is more intent on finding this damn place!”

Porthos snarled at him, before looking at Charon and Flea, who were standing either side of him. Charon and Flea’s expressions were, if anything, looking disapprovingly at _him_ rather than LaBarge. The Court around them was filled with a tense silence.

“Let them, Porthos.” Charon said, softly.

“Alright,” Porthos hissed, “Alright. I’ll just let them kill them shall I? I’ll do as you both say and let them get away with this. You like to let people get away with things, don’t you? Where were you both when that man was being tormented at the Festival? You were the ones in charge of the King of Fools. Where were you to stand up for him?”

“I tried,” Flea countered angrily, “No-one was listening to me.”

“And so I had to do it!” Porthos shouted, letting the whole crowd hear him now. “I know that you think this whole mess is my fault, and fine, it is. But can you really blame me for helping that man at the Festival? He was an outcast, just like the rest of us. And it was about time someone humiliated that bastard Richelieu. It was about time that we fought for the justice that we’re owed!”

“Exactly.” LaBarge growled, “So let us kill these scum.”

“Fine.” Porthos said, “You can kill them. It’s not like they can leave here anyway now that they have seen where the Court is. But if you ever drag men in here again, be sure that I will kill _you_ for putting every person in this Court in danger, including your own sorry lives.” Porthos spat at LaBarge’s feet. “We’re done here. Kill the soldiers. And then make sure you and I don’t have another meeting like this again. It will not end well for you.”

Porthos turned to tell Athos and Aramis that they were leaving, when suddenly he heard Flea shriek, and the next thing he knew, a sharp pain was blossoming from his shoulder. He swung his hand round to his back to find a dagger handle protruding from his left shoulder.

“Huh.” He said in surprise. Before all hell let loose.

*

d’Artagnan and seemingly every other person in the Court could have done absolutely nothing to stop LaBarge from stabbing Porthos in the back. It happened so quickly that there was no time to step in, to react - to do anything.

“Huh.” Porthos let out a noise of surprise when he had realised what had happened to him.

And then, everyone who had been frozen in shock all reacted at once.

Porthos swung himself around, his own knife suddenly in hand, and he slashed LaBarge’s chest with one swift movement. Blood sprayed across the nearest onlookers and LaBarge went down immediately. Flea and Charon, despite having appeared to be against Porthos during much of the confrontation, both leapt at LaBarge’s men when they moved forward to attack Porthos. Athos spun round to make sure no-one was going to get to Porthos again from behind, and Aramis charged in to the men behind LaBarge with a furious shout.

d’Artagnan fought his way through the panicked crowd to Porthos’ side. How Porthos was still standing and bearing the pain, d’Artagnan had no idea. By the time he reached Porthos, Porthos was leaning over LaBarge, who was bleeding out on to the floor. “You know,” Porthos was saying to LaBarge, “d’Artagnan told me he threatened to cut you a new smile. I think he had a good idea.” And with that, LaBarge’s throat was slit.

Porthos stood straight again, his face a rather sickly pallor. But even so, he stood at his full height and stared unflinchingly at LaBarge’s men, who had been beaten back or wounded by Flea, Charon, Aramis and other members of the Court who had helped to intervene. Two of LaBarge’s men were dead beside LaBarge on the floor.

“I would kill the lot of you for this.” Porthos said coldly, his voice carrying across the sudden silence that had descended back over the Court. “To even attempt to challenge me in such a way. I’ve been in the Court longer than most of you. Charon, Flea and me lead the lot of you.”

“We are the reasons you lot haven’t been strung up before now.” Charon stepped in supportively, his knife still in hand and pointing at the men. It was clear he was feeling guilty for doubting his friend, but he was showing his allegiance to Porthos now. “If you ever dare to challenge Porthos again, you’ll join LaBarge. If you ever challenge any of us again, you will regret it. Is that understood?”

The men mumbled responses. d’Artagnan did not really hear them, he and many of the Court were staring in numb shock at where the dagger was embedded in Porthos’ skin and blood was beginning to stain Porthos’ shirt a stark red.

Porthos stepped over LaBarge’s body, and d’Artagnan was not sure whether Porthos kicked the corpse on purpose, or whether his energy was beginning to fail him. Porthos finally came to a halt in front of the two captured soldiers, who were looking up at him fearfully. “We find you innocent, this time.” He said to them, “But sometimes, that is the worst crime of all.” He then addressed Flea, and d’Artagnan flinched along with Flea at Porthos’ cold tone. Porthos was never cold. Porthos was warmth and light. To see him so worn down and frustrated and wounded was disturbing to those who were close to him. “Hang them.” He said shortly, before turning on his heel and walking back towards Athos, in the direction of their room. His head was held high, and it was purely Porthos’ strength of will that was not allowing him to betray the intense pain he had to be feeling. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will need Aramis’ assistance with his needle.” And with that, d’Artagnan, Athos and Aramis followed him back towards their room.

The moment they were out of sight of the crowd, Porthos immediately slumped back into Aramis and Athos’ supportive arms. “Fuck.” He gasped through his teeth, “This really fucking hurts.”

“I know it must, Jesus, Porthos.” Athos’ voice sounded strained.

d’Artagnan leapt forward to help when Porthos collapsed down a little further as they reached their room. “God Porthos, I’m sorry you got hurt.” d’Artagnan said urgently as Aramis eased Porthos down to the bed on his front and moved to get his medical supplies.

Porthos’ face was drained in his pain; his dark skin the palest d’Artagnan had ever seen it.

“Hey.” Porthos said, and d’Artagnan clasped Porthos’ hand when he reached for him. “It was my damn fault, though, wasn’t it?” He laughed, before it died with a groan and a wheeze when the laugh jolted the dagger in his shoulder. “But I got LaBarge good for you, didn’t I?”

d’Artagnan smiled at him, reaching out to run his fingers over Porthos’ face, careful of the bruises on his face and worried by the coolness and clamminess of Porthos’ skin. “You sure did.” d’Artagnan said. “It was a better smile than I could have painted.”

Aramis came back with his supplies. “Porthos, I don’t think the blade will have hit anything vital, but I am going to have to remove it from you. And I am not going to lie; it is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Son of a witch.” Porthos corrected, glancing up at Aramis above him.

Aramis rolled his eyes and laughed, but it was a tense laugh, “Glad to see you still have your humour.”

“Hmm.” Porthos agreed as Athos pressed a bottle of whisky in to his hands. “Thanks. I’ll need that.” He wasted no time in gulping some down.

Aramis worked on carefully cutting Porthos’ shirt off, before checking the wound to make sure that his assumptions had been correct, and how best to remove it.

“Ok, darling,” Aramis started after a moment of silence, “This is going to hurt really terribly. I am sorry.”

Athos was pushing a piece of wood between Porthos’ teeth. “You ready?” Athos asked.

Porthos made a sound that was most probably ‘no’, before Aramis pulled the knife from his back. Somewhere amidst the muffled screaming, Porthos went limp when he fell unconscious.

Aramis pulled up Porthos’ eyelids and checked him over, before reaching straight for his needle. None of them were too alarmed by Porthos passing out; they were used to patching each other up and were familiar with how each of them dealt with pain. Sometimes if Porthos did not pass out by himself, it was often kinder to knock him out instead; brutish, maybe, but necessary, because Porthos sometimes moved about too much for Aramis’ needle and was too strong to be restrained.

Aramis began to sew Porthos back up, and d’Artagnan knew he was not the only one trying to ignore the way Aramis’ hands were turning red with Porthos’ blood. Athos looked almost as drained and exhausted as Porthos did, and Aramis was focused in his work, probably using it as an escape from his other feelings. d’Artagnan just felt a bit lost.

Surprisingly, it was Aramis who spoke first, “It has been hard these last few days watching his world fall apart around him and being useless to help him.”

Athos gently removed the bottle of whisky from Porthos’ lax fingers. “It has.” He agreed. “I know how he despises being the King sometimes, but he is the best to lead of any of us, and he knows that too. He is in a difficult position.”

“No wonder he has been so wound up.” Aramis said. He glanced up at Athos, “I know you are annoyed about my egging him on at the fight against LaBarge the other day, but he needed a release of tension. If he had not had such outlets, today may have gone much differently. And we do not know if it would have been better or worse.”

Athos sighed, “I do not blame you. I think he needed it, too.” He took a swig from the bottle. “And god knows everyone wanted to have a hit at LaBarge. He had been out of order for a long time before today. He needed dealing with.”

d’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, knowing it was him that LaBarge had initially had such a problem with. Yet another thing to feel guilty about. He reached out with careful fingers to run a hand through Porthos’ hair. “He has been so unlike himself.” He found himself saying, “And I can see him hating himself for getting wound up, but he has so much responsibility, I cannot blame him for it in the slightest.”

“His heart is too kind.” Aramis said simply, his hand swift and delicate with the needle. “Porthos is, quite frankly, unique when it comes to the Court-dwellers. Out of all of them, he has retained the gentlest and fairest soul. And that in itself is miraculous. We have only been running from Richelieu for a few years in comparison to Porthos’ lifetime of it. To have Richelieu be such a renewed threat now after all that time must be such a pressure.”

“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” Porthos mumbled suddenly between them all.

“Just you, dear.” Aramis told him. “All nice things, of course.”

“Should hope so. Aramis, am I done?”

“Just about my love, hold on.”

“Aramis has done another fine patch-up for you, Porthos.” Athos said.

“Patch-up?!” Aramis scolded lightly, “I’ll have you know that my work is seamless. There will be no patches anywhere.” He patted Porthos’ hand, leaving bloody fingerprints, “There may be a faint scar, however. It will make you look even more manly.”

“Didn’t think I could get more manly.” Porthos quipped.

“True.” Aramis agreed easily, tying off the thread and cutting it. “There, all done. I’ll just have to clean you up a bit. Red is not your colour, my dear. I do not like it on you.”

“Ok.” Porthos said, sounding tired.

d’Artagnan carried on stroking Porthos’ hair and Athos was easing himself down on his side so that he was lying beside Porthos. “Aramis has done a good job.” Athos reassured him.

“He should have been a seamstress.” Porthos said.

“I can hear you, you know.” Aramis told them from where he was filling up a basin with clean water.

“I know.”

“Go to sleep.” Athos told Porthos, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We won’t go anywhere.”

“Best not.” Porthos’ voice was a mere murmur as he drifted off again.

“We love you.” d’Artagnan said before Porthos’ eyes closed and his lips drifted into a small smile.

Whilst Aramis cleaned Porthos up, careful not to wake him, Athos sat himself up against the nearest wall, finishing off the bottle of whisky. d’Artagnan did not miss Aramis watching Athos concernedly, but he did not say anything.

Porthos’ leadership was not questioned in the Court again after that day.

*

_Richelieu looked down at the skin under his hand. It kept changing colour. The hair that he was tugging at changed from rugged messy brown, to tight black curls, to soft chocolate waves, to unruly raven locks. The eyes staring up at him changed from ice blue to varying tones of brown. Four different looks. Four different bodies. Four different vexes; the traitorous soldier, the King of the Court, the witch who survived Savoy and the boy that had escaped death. Four different temptations. Four different men who were destined to die at his hands. Between one moment and the next, the man under him changed to the next and then on again. Each brought with them new frustrations and lures; Athos’ defiance, Porthos’ challenging, Aramis’ wantonness. But at the end of it all there was d’Artagnan under him. d’Artagnan had the youngest, leanest frame; the easiest to overpower and make submissive. d’Artagnan who was staring up at him with eyes that feared and respected him. d’Artagnan had by this point been broken in and moulded to be a good citizen of Paris. A pure citizen of France. Richelieu had shown him the way to the light. Pulled him from the grasp of the others. d’Artagnan’s fingers curled where Richelieu had tied them down. He arched up against him, enticing noises escaping him._

_“I chose you.” d’Artagnan gasped under Richelieu’s mouth, “I chose you, not my pyre. Not the fire.”_

Richelieu sat up, his hands fisted in his bedspread. He shook his head, the images still disturbingly vivid in his head. He shifted uncomfortably, irritated to once again have been effected by his dreams of those…heathens. He got out of bed, not daring to go back to sleep again. He splashed water on his face and took a moment or two to compose himself before he wrapped a loose robe around him, and then found the nearest guard to his rooms. “Fetch the woman. I need to speak with her.” He ordered.

*

Milady watched Richelieu pace around the room in the most agitated state. The man was clearly verging into lunacy. But work was work and protection was protection and money was money. She was leaning against a lavish cabinet in fine clothes with a goblet of expensive wine in hand. She could not complain. If Richelieu wanted to rant and rave, she would listen. If Richelieu wanted something doing, she could see that it was done, to any extent that she wished. He was so caught up in his selfish motives (disguised as religious ‘calling’) that he would not notice if she was failing in her mission to find the Court on purpose. 

Tonight he seemed even more riled up than usual and Milady refrained from raising an eyebrow at the fact that the man was in his bedclothes and had called for her in the middle of the night. He was suspiciously flustered, but that was quickly turning into anger as he complained about how they had made little progress in the week that had passed since the Festival.

“The scoundrels will just not give each other up! Not even for the three pieces of _gold_ I last offered. I thought that they would scramble over each other and fight to the death over such a fortune. But no. They have deceived me yet again.”

Milady did not even know why she had been asked to be present. Richelieu was not asking for her opinion, just using her as an ear to rant to. He could have done the same thing by talking to himself, he was mad enough to.

Richelieu paused at the window, staring at the city beyond. “I am tired of chasing these rats.” He spat. “We must find a way to trap them, or flush them out…but how…they hide away among the brickwork and I just cannot find them…” He paused, “But there have, of course, been rumours of the common folk – and even some of the higher classes – taking pity on them and hiding them.”

Milady frowned into her goblet. She did not like the path his mind was taking. As much as she wanted her revenge on Athos, she did not want Richelieu to get there first. She had not told Richelieu that she had been Athos’ wife. As far as Richelieu knew, Athos had never had a wife. If he had known, he would immediately have suspected her of being a spy for the gypsies and had her arrested.

“I have heard rumours of that Adele Bassett and I would not put it past that intolerable de Larroque woman either.” Richelieu was saying, “And that young, wealthy couple that inherited far too early and are too immature and incompetent to handle themselves – what are their names? – Louis and Anne? Yes, I think those are their names. But there are the commoners too; the bakers and the millers and the other tradespeople. They have to be pitying of the gypsies. They attended the Festival. I saw them amongst the crowds. And those commoners do not have the same loyalty to the gypsies that the gypsies do for each other. If I offered the right price…gave a good enough incentive for them to confess…” He suddenly spun around to face her, and he was smiling. She could not remember him smiling before. It was rather terrifying. “That is it, Milady. Of course! Why I did not think of it before…We will make _them_ talk. We will finish the gypsies that way!”

“Sir,” Milady tried to make the man see some sense, “The reason you have not used such a tactic before now is because you need the people of Paris on your side. If you threaten or bribe them, they will turn against you.”

“I care not anymore.” Richelieu waved her words aside. “They have already betrayed me; they have already chosen their side – the gypsies! I have the forces to manage the crowd and have them bow to my will. To the lord’s will!”

Milady drained the rest of her wine goblet for lack of anything to say. The man had completely lost it.

“Yes.” Richelieu said, calling to the guards before turning back to her. “Even if we have to take Paris apart brick by brick, we will find them. I will have them. Even if we have to burn Paris to the ground, so be it.”

She knew that there was no way Richelieu would be swayed from his decision now. There was nothing any of them could do. It looked like Paris may just be about to go up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit once again goes to lyricist Stephen Schwartz for the song 'The Court of Miracles', some of the lyrics for which were used for the 'execution song' and inspired some of the dialogue.


	8. Chapter 8

**16 January 1482**

 

Paris was burning.

Pillars of thick grey smoke rose up in to the sky and the buildings were bathed in the oranges and reds of the flames that consumed them. The glow mingled with that of the sun, sitting low in the sky.

It was almost the end of a dark, dark day that had, ironically, been filled with fire.

Treville looked over the devastating scene from the Palace of Justice, his heart heavy and his nostrils plagued by the stench of smoke and ashes.

Orders had come from Judge Richelieu two days ago to begin the searching and ransacking of the homes of the common people of the city. He had grown so desperate in his hunt for the gypsies that he was willing to threaten his already brittle relation with the common folk in order to find them. Floorboards had been ripped up to reveal people hiding beneath them, lofts pulled down to reveal people among the rafters, carts had been pushed into the river and the people left to save themselves from drowning. Man, woman or child, it did not seem to matter to Richelieu as long as they were gypsies. If that had not already been clear seven years before when Richelieu had intended to push a fifteen year old boy down a well, then it was clearer than daylight now. And the commoners who had been hiding the gypsies were now no longer safe from arrest and similar judgement and treatments.

Even the higher classes had not been exempt from Richelieu's suspicion and scrutiny.

Adele Bassett had been one of the first; not too high of class but more notable than the common folk. She was a beautiful woman of quick wit and mind. Treville knew Adele because of their shared secret alliance to the gypsy cause. But whilst rumours of Treville's loyalties had withered and died whilst he had been away, the rumours of Adele had clearly been festering in the back of Richelieu's mind. Richelieu did not inform Treville that he was conducting a search at Adele's home. It was not until via a quiet grapevine of whisperings that wound through the soldiers later that Treville had heard that Adele Bassett had been 'disposed of'. He did not know how true of a rumour this was. He did not know whether or not the woman had been found guilty but the hushed-form of the rumours, which were then quickly silenced, suggested the sinister. Treville looked for her after, but she had vanished. Adele had been an ally to the gypsies for years, particularly to Aramis, but Treville doubted the gypsies would have heard anything of it because the rumours did not spread far before they were stopped. He hoped Adele was just locked up somewhere in isolation or being questioned, but he also knew the more likely reality was that she was dead.

The home of the Comtesse de Larroque had also been inspected, but nothing of suspicion had been uncovered. Richelieu had been displeased by this, apparently because he held a great dislike of her for reasons Treville did not know (though the likelihood was that there was actually little legitimate reason for it at all). Ninon had not protested against the search and had confidently showed them in, before sitting in her chair and looking smug as she watched soldiers turn her home upside down. When they found nothing she sent them a smile and told them they were welcome to stop by again at any time.

Treville had only just managed to persuade Richelieu out of arresting Louis and Anne Royale, who were good friends of Treville's and not actually harbourers of gypsies, merely sympathisers. In comparison to Ninon's calm manner, Louis had been furiously petulant about the invasion of their home and had complained the entire time the soldiers were there. This defensive nature however had roused the suspicion that had almost led to their arrest. Anne had been less problematic to the search but her near-constant look of composed loathing for Richelieu had not helped matters.

Richelieu's crazed searches had brought him another handful of gypsies to arrest and some 'traitors' who had hidden them. But Richelieu was becoming increasingly agitated by the fact that he had not found the gypsies he truly wanted to find. Of Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan there had been no sight or sound. Treville was thankful for it. Richelieu was growing ever obsessed with them by the minute, ranting about them by name in tirades that always appeared to be more to himself than to Treville. Treville could not even dare to think what might happen to the four if Richelieu ever got his hands on them. However, Treville had no doubt that the four men were still within Paris. He wondered how they were feeling watching the world burn around them, through no fault of their own, but, knowing Athos in particular, feeling the guilt of it. All they could do was watch from the side lines, and Treville hoped that they stayed there. The alternative; the four of them involving themselves to protect others and then facing arrest and Richelieu, was too terrible a thought to even entertain.

"Captain Treville," a soldier entered the room in which Treville had been both enjoying his moment of quiet and solitude, and hating being left alone with his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"The Judge orders your presence. He wishes to search another property before the day is done."

"Very well." Treville sighed, hating his position, hating the Judge and hating the fact he might have to arrest yet another innocent person that day. "I will be with him in a moment."

He needed a moment to collect himself. To remind himself that his position meant that he could help people. Without him, Louis and Anne would have been arrested that day, d'Artagnan would not have lived past fifteen and all the other people he had helped over the years would not have been aided or saved. But that same position also became a problem when Treville could not find a way to help people and then had to be the one to arrest them. It was becoming an increasing problem of late, and one he was becoming ever more weary of. He needed to collect himself for the final search of the night, because he was stretched so thin he was about to snap, and if any little thing went awry that night, Treville could see himself breaking.

*

Aramis looked down at the orange city. He could feel the heat on his face. "The city of lovers is glowing this evening." He remarked.

He did not look at Porthos, despite knowing he was most likely receiving a side-eyed look of incredulous disbelief. After a pause, Porthos rose to the bait, "That's because it's on fire." There was a tease in his voice, and Aramis grinned to himself.

"True." He agreed, before falling back in his most dramatic swoon, "But still there's l'amour."

Porthos laughed, "You worry me sometimes."

Aramis turned to look at Porthos. It had been three days since Porthos had been stabbed and he was still recovering from the wound. But he looked far better than he had, even before the confrontation with LaBarge. He seemed less burdened by his responsibilties in the Court, but that could have also been because no one had dared orchestrate anymore unnecessary executions since the incident.

Aramis and Porthos were sitting together in a lookout the gypsies kept in a copse of trees on a bank edging the graveyard in which the Court's main entrance lay. They had surfaced from the Court for a look at the stars and a breath of fresh air after being cooped up in stone walls underground for days. But the stars were somewhat hidden by plumes of grey smoke and the fresh air tasted of fire and guilt. Aramis refused to let that darken Porthos' mood however, not when Porthos had only just gotten back to his usual self.

"I know I do." Aramis said, pressing a kiss to Porthos' cheek, "But you love me anyway."

Porthos hummed in agreement, "That I do."

Aramis accepted another kiss from him. "See, I told you, there is still l'amour."

Porthos laughed again. "You are insufferable." That laugh then morphed in to a groan and he rolled his shoulder stiffly, "Fucking shoulder..."

"Hey!" Aramis protested, "You'll pull your stitches. Come here..." Aramis scooted himself back to sit against a tree and urged Porthos to move between his legs and lean back against Aramis' front.

Aramis pressed his nose into Porthos' hair and breathed him in, as they both watched the city in silence.

"I don't think we'll be able to see the stars tonight." Porthos commented, his voice heavy, "Too much smoke."

"It's nice to be out in the evening though." Aramis tried, "I don't know about you but the Court was getting a bit claustrophobic."

Porthos hummed in agreement, but having lived there all his life, he never felt trapped in there like Aramis sometimes could.

"So, whilst we're up here," Porthos said, "How shall we pass the time?"

There were other people watching the entrance to the Court tonight, Porthos and Aramis were just back-up, taking the opportunity to be above ground for a short while. Aramis discovered what Porthos had in mind when large hands ran from Aramis' knees toward his crotch and pushed his thighs a little further apart as they did so.

"Ah ah." Aramis tutted, attempting to stall Porthos before his traitorous body began to respond to Porthos' touch and intentions. "Your shoulder..."

Porthos groaned in frustration, "That excuse has been used for days now! I'm much better."

"Is that true? Or is one part of your body making rash decisions and selfishly not considering the other parts?"

"Fine." Porthos huffed, wriggling himself back into Aramis' chest, his backside pressing up against Aramis, who found it even harder to halt his display of interest. "It's been ages since we had sex outside."

Aramis sighed, recalling nights under the stars, the air chilly but the bodies around him hot and warming. They seemed so long ago now. So did any activity outside of the Court. "It's been ages since we did anything outside."

Porthos shifted to look up at him, one hand remained tight on Aramis' thigh, whilst the other found his hand and linked their fingers together. "You ok?"

Aramis laughed fondly - typical selfless Porthos - "Should I not be asking you that? You are the one who has lived in Paris all your life..."

"Yet never truly belonged." Porthos finished for him. "Don't look at me like that, I know that's what you were dancing around, and you're right. I have come to terms with being in this city but not part of it. I have never been free to be a part of 'them' - the people. Our kind are mostly seen as to be mistrusted, a charity or a spectacle. We do not belong among them, even when some of us have lived here longer than they have."

"Oh Porthos." Aramis said sadly, pressing his lips to Porthos' neck.

They were quiet for a while. They watched the city some more and the sun was on the verge of setting, the orange in the sky indecipherable as emerging sunset or just light from fires in the city.

"You know something," Porthos said eventually, "I'd give anything for us to spend a day out there, as a part of them. Just living like they do, completely free of any danger or harassment. Could you imagine it?"

Aramis rested his chin on Porthos' good shoulder, so that they were eye level and looking together at the city. Aramis pointed, "I can see us. You and me and Athos and d'Artagnan, and Charon, Flea and all the rest, out there, living in the sun, strolling by the Seine."

Porthos was grinning; Aramis could feel the curl of a dimpled smile pressed against his cheek, "Even if it was just for one day. One day living like ordinary men. That would be all I needed to die happy. We could taste the morning as free men, bid the day farewell as free men. That would see me content with my share."

It seemed crazy to Aramis that such a simple wish, that would bring Porthos such endless joy, could be so easily rectified if it wasn't for the condemnation by a minority. It did not seem fair. He voiced this observation aloud, "Every day those people go about their lives heedless of the gift it is to be them - free and without prejudice - and yet if you were to spend a day in their skin, you would treasure it like it were more valuable than all the gold in France."

"Well, maybe not more than _all_ the gold in France." Porthos corrected.

Aramis laughed, but it was slightly strained; whilst they had been talking Aramis had pushed himself closer up to Porthos and Porthos, who had been distracted and animated by their fantasy, had started moving the hand on Aramis' thigh, kneading right by the seam of his trousers, tantalizingly close to Aramis' cock. Porthos' index finger was now pressing along the hardening line of it, innocent in Porthos' obliviousness to what he had been doing. When Porthos did notice he went to retract his hand with an insincere mumble of an apology, but before he could, Aramis had instinctively slammed his hand down on top of Porthos' to stop it moving away. "Don't stop." He breathed out, pressing Porthos' hand harder into the inside seam of his thigh, wanting to move it just that tiny bit more. It felt so damn good.

"I don't wanna stop." Porthos told him bluntly.

Aramis let out a frustrated growl, "We can't risk it...pulling your stitches."

"I have never known you refuse to have sex so often." Porthos knocked his head gently against Aramis'. "Do you not want me anymore?"

"Please." Aramis scoffed, "A guy like you? There will never be a day that I don't want you."

"A guy like me, huh?"

"A rare breed, let me tell you. You don't meet a guy like you every day."

"You have two more down in the Court."

Athos and d'Artagnan were doing duties in the Court, which was why they were not out here with them. Aramis thought of them, "I am very lucky in that. But you are all different. Good, charming differences, of course."

"Uh-huh, so tell me more about my charming differences?"

And, as always, when encouraged enough on these matters, Aramis found inspiration, "How about I tell you all about it whilst I give you a 'hand' and then whilst I do myself."

"But I thought you said..."

"All you will have to do is rest easy. Your shoulder will not even have to move. I'll do all the work."

"Well then," Porthos turned round so that he could catch Aramis' lips in a kiss, Aramis was only too happy to oblige, "I am in your capable hands."

*

If Athos had not felt guilty before Richelieu set Paris on fire, he really did now.

The people in the Court looked at them no differently for being a cause for the Judges' contempt, and they still mostly rallied together in their common cause of being the persecuted race. But following the strenuous breaks in that togetherness that had left Porthos with a knife in his back, Athos was concerned as to how long that loyalty would last. However, saying that, after LaBarge the Court seemed to be back to rights (if you could ever call the activity of the Court as 'rightful'); no-one had again challenged Porthos, Flea or Charon and there had been no more executions because no more of Richelieu's spies had found the Court and no more soldiers had been dragged in from the city.  There were, of course, still a couple of members of the Court who wished for other forms of radical revenge. Vadim had suggested setting fire to everything Richelieu held dear to see how he liked it, but as Richelieu’s main haunts were religious or royal buildings, the idea was not a supported one. None of the other drastic suggested plans had been carried out either. Athos just hoped that that would also last.

The burning of Paris could, however, be the literal spark needed for the common people to give them up. They did not have a gypsies' steadfast loyalty to the gypsy race, only for the welfare of their families and of that Athos could never blame them. To protect his family Athos would do just about anything (his family being Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan). He was surprised no-one had betrayed the gypsies already to protect their own. He had heard how the searches were conducted. And if you were found guilty, your house was burned. He knew Ninon's home had been inspected, but as they had found nothing and Ninon was one of the upmost classes in Paris, her home had been left untouched and unburnt. Of course, no-one outside of the gypsies knew where the Court was, so the location could not be betrayed. And stories had found their way down to the Court of the common people defending their decisions to help the gypsies to the very last. That, of course, made Athos feel guiltier for bringing all this down upon them and then to misjudge their kindness. Many of the people in Paris despised Richelieu and helped gypsies; many were sympathetic to the cause. Athos just hoped that the burning of their homes did not destroy their stubbornness in refusing to give the Judge any information he was seeking.

d'Artagnan clearly knew that Athos was suffering with guilt as he had been unusually quiet all afternoon, only really speaking to Athos about the tasks they were carrying out and not about what was happening in the city above. Though Athos supposed d'Artagnan was feeling a similar guilt, because he still had a habit of apologising to everybody. Athos had told d'Artagnan countless times that it was not his fault, but d'Artagnan just argued that if Athos was allowing himself to feel guilty, then d'Artagnan should be feeling it ten-fold. Their argument had eventually come to a standstill and they both stopped trying to convince each other not to feel the weight of this catastrophe upon their shoulders, because they were both going to anyway. So today they were bearing it together, but in relative silence.

They were distracted from their work when Elise ran in to the Court and straight up to them. She was panting from the exertion of running. "I have heard news that Richelieu is on the move again. One more inspection for tonight."

"Who is it?" Athos asked, concern dawning because Elise would not have come to them if the inspection's target was not someone they knew.

Athos felt d'Artagnan tense beside him. d'Artagnan had been fearing news of the Bonacieux's since the searches began two days ago. _'But what if I have left something at the house and we hadn't noticed?!'_ He had panicked, _'What if someone has seen me and Constance together?'_

It was not Constance's fate that Elise had come to warn them about, however. "It's the miller and his family." Elise said.

Henri, the miller, owned a mill and cottage on the outskirts of Paris, uphill by a bridge that crossed the Seine. Henri, his wife and two children always welcomed gypsies in to their home and gave them food and a place to stay for the night, and the gypsies would nearly always repay that kindness with payment of some kind. Athos had been helped by Henri before, but not as much as Porthos had. Porthos and Henri were good friends and it devastated Athos to think that Henri's livelihood, and even his life, could end that night. He had to do something. This had all gone far enough.

"Does Porthos know?" He asked Elise.

"I did not know where he was, so I came straight to you."

"He is outside with Aramis. When he gets back do not tell him until I have returned."

If Porthos knew, then he would try and do something about it, and he was still injured. Athos would not lose Porthos when he could go in his stead.

"Where are you going?" d'Artagnan asked, although Athos knew he already knew the answer.

"I am going to make sure Henri and his family come out of this alive." Athos took a step forward, but d'Artagnan moved until he blocked his way.

"You are not going alone." He said.

Athos knew there would be no swaying him and there was no time to argue. "Very well."

"And we won't be doing anything too drastic?" d'Artagnan sounded nervous as he followed Athos. "Porthos and Aramis would never forgive us."

"I will see to it that we return to them, and we will not be seen by Richelieu, do not panic. We will not be able to intervene without catching attention. But we will aid Henri the best that we can when Richelieu has gone. It is all we really can do."

"Are you sure we should not tell Aramis and Porthos?"

"I'm sure." Athos said. He did not want anyone else in this potential danger. If d'Artagnan had not been there to hear Elise's message Athos would have left and not told him either.

They fetched their cloaks before they made their way towards a smaller exit from the Court, not using the main one to make sure Aramis and Porthos would not see them.

The evening air was warm - warmer than the Court - when usually it was a cool relief from the sometime-stuffiness of stone walls.

d'Artagnan crashed in to Athos as Athos stopped still and stared across Paris.

"Oh my god." d'Artagnan gasped, "It looks like it's _all_ on fire."

"It is just the sun setting." Athos promised him, "It is not as bad as it looks."

d'Artagnan did not look convinced, but that was probably because Athos was not completely convinced himself. d'Artagnan's hand sought out Athos' own and Athos held on to it tightly.

"So much for this all blowing over." d'Artagnan's voice was only just loud enough for Athos to hear. "This is worse than it could possibly get."

Athos doubted that, but he did not dare tell d'Artagnan that.

"Which is the quickest way to the mill?" Athos asked him, hoping to distract him.

d'Artagnan's quick eyes scanned the city a moment as he thought about it, clearly taking into consideration which paths were now blocked by fire. He let go of Athos' hand to pull up the hood on his cloak and then turned to do the same for Athos.  "This way." He said, before leading Athos away from the Court. They kept a close eye on their surroundings at all times, to make sure that they had not been.

They kept to the outer lying streets of the city, and only encountered one patrol of soldiers, but it had been a close encounter. Athos had dragged d'Artagnan in to the nearest alleyway, bustling him in to a darkened doorway and pressing him close up against the wood of the door. They held their breath as the soldiers walked far too close by, Athos hating the sound of d'Artagnan's short, shallow breaths in his struggle to keep quiet sharp in his ear, and for the millionth time finding himself longing for a day when they would be able to walk down a street without having to dart into a hiding place or run away.

Athos bent his head into d'Artagnan's shoulder, holding him close and determined that if they were found he would not let him go. He knew d'Artagnan was watching the men go past with wide, dark eyes over the top of Athos' head. And, just when Athos was preparing himself to fight for the death for d'Artagnan's freedom, the men carried on. By some miracle, or just because of their own confidence that two gypsies would not be idiotic enough to even be out in the street at that time, the soldiers had missed them completely.

d'Artagnan's sound of pure relief had Athos' stomach unclenching slightly, and as the sound of the soldiers fell away, he dared to move. He pulled back from d'Artagnan, looking up at him to find d'Artagnan watching him back. "That was close." d'Artagnan whispered.

Athos surged forward to give him a kiss, showing his relief at not being seen in action rather than words. Then they wasted no more time in carrying on to the mill.

It turned out that the seeming lack of soldier patrols on the outskirts of Paris was because Richelieu had taken a fair share of them with him to Henri's mill. At one side of the mill stood a gang of soldiers, and at the other side a gaggle of local people who had gathered to see what was going on. In the middle stood Richelieu, Henri, Henri’s young son, Henri’s wife carrying a squalling baby in her arms, and Captain Treville. Athos and d'Artagnan moved amongst the stragglers at the back of the group of locals. Treville looked like barely contained thunder, Henri was falling on his knees to plead with Richelieu, and Richelieu? Well Richelieu looked just as he always did. Like he wanted to conquer the world by oppressing one person at a time.

*

Treville had had no idea that Richelieu had intended to search Henri's home until they drew so close to the mill that the destination was undeniable. Treville had known Henri for a long time, because Henri was a friend to everybody. But that, this time, appeared to have been his crime.

There was no point in arguing against Richelieu's decision, because he appeared set in it. Richelieu must have gotten a tip off because his surety of Henri's guilt - a man he had never bent so low as to even acknowledge before now - was adamant. Richelieu seemed to have brought in his creatures from across France to help in his hunt for the gypsies, because his searches were becoming increasingly accurate, and he seemed far better advised and informed about his 'enemies' than ever before. Treville had seen a couple of new, untrustworthy faces within the Palace of Justice recently; a blonde sneering man named Rochefort and a beautiful, sly woman they called de Winter were two that sprang to mind as being Richelieu's new favourites to turn to. It did not bother Treville that Richelieu was looking less to him for counsel now in the terms of not spending as much time with him, but now Treville was less knowledgeable about Richelieu's intentions and what he knew than ever before. Richelieu's sudden growth of confidence about his hunt had appeared almost from nowhere and did not bode well for anybody but his creatures. So Treville had not argued against Richelieu's decision to search the mill because he had known it would be useless, but he had hoped that he would be able to soften any blow that Richelieu had intended to deal.

That was before Richelieu’s men had discovered a gypsy token - a type of small penny-sized medallion - in Henri's cellar.

Henri was on his knees, hands clasped before him, not ashamed to beg for his family. "Our home is always open to the weary traveller. Have mercy my lord!"

Richelieu seemed to be weighing his options before he replied callously, "You will be placed under house arrest until I get to the bottom of this. If what you say is true and you are innocent then you have nothing to fear.”

“But we are innocent.” Henri insisted, “I assure you.”

Richelieu herded Henri and his wife back into the house and barred the door firmly. Then he turned to Treville and he said "Burn it."

"What?" Treville asked, lost for words. What of Richelieu's word to Henri for a fair investigation?

"Until it smoulders." Richelieu continued as though Treville had not spoken. “These people are traitors and must be made examples of.”

“With all due respect, Sir," Treville argued through gritted teeth, "I was not trained to murder the innocent.”

“But you _were_ trained to follow _orders_ , Treville.”

Richelieu gestured to a nearby guard to pass Treville the burning torch he was holding. The soldier did so and Treville took the torch. He glared at Richelieu as he moved toward the house...before dunking the torch in a barrel of water and extinguishing it.

“Insolent coward.” Richelieu hissed, before riding past another soldier and snatching the torch from his hand. He urged his horse close to the house and held the flame up to the turning sails of the windmill, successfully setting one on fire, before riding away again.

*

The mill set fire so quickly that it happened in a matter of blinks of the eye. The fire spread from one sail to the rest and onto the thatched roof, the dry but windy January air exacerbating the speed. The house was alight in moments. During that short time a lot seemed to happen; d'Artagnan lurched forward a couple of steps, to have Athos' arm fling out to hold him back, though Athos looked conflicted himself in his ability to remain within the crowd of locals, who were gasping and crying out in disbelief. The family trapped inside were screaming. And Richelieu was just sitting on his horse, watching it burn. d'Artagnan was not close enough to see the flames reflected in those stone-grey eyes, but he could picture it, like the man was possessed by the devil. Richelieu looked just as he had all those years ago, on his large, intimidating black stallion, as calm and still as the same stone his eyes seemed to be carved out of, watching people suffer and perish before him with no remorse and sympathy. The moment d'Artagnan had hit Athos' barrier-arm he clung on to it, trying to crawl out of the memories that threatened to consume him. And then something else happened.

Treville leapt forward and smashed his way through the window of the burning cottage. It was a good job d'Artagnan had had a hold on Athos, because suddenly it was him holding them back. He did not know if he had the strength of will to keep them in the crowd. Treville meant a lot to the four of them, but to Athos and d'Artagnan most; Athos who had served under him and had been friends with Treville for years, and d'Artagnan who would not be alive today if not for Treville's intervention on the steps of the Notre Dame. Unable to move without being recognised, Athos' hand found d'Artagnan's in turn and gripped it so hard it hurt.

Then there was a bang, and Treville was in the entrance to the cottage, having kicked the door down completely from its hinges. He was carrying the small boy in his arms, and was closely followed by Henri's wife, carrying the baby, and Henri himself.

"Oh god." Athos breathed.

d'Artagnan was wondering why Athos' exclamation was not one of relief but of dread, until he saw Richelieu glaring after Treville with a cold fury. Treville passed the boy to Henri, who was full of tearful gratitude, before the family were drawn into the safety and protection of the crowd of on-looking Parisians.

The moment Treville was alone, Richelieu made a gesture with his hand and a moment later the hilt of a soldier's sword had slammed in to the back of his head. Treville dropped to his knees with a shout. Athos flinched in d'Artagnan's grip.

The crowd fell silent. Richelieu dismounted his horse and moved to stand over Treville with a look of disgust.

“The sentence for insubordination is death.” Richelieu told him, “Such a pity.” He did not sound sorry about it in the slightest, “You have had a long, strong career, and have thrown away a promising future of service.”

“Consider it my highest honour, Sir.” Treville ground out, before he suddenly leapt up from the ground, pushing Richelieu aside as he grabbed the reins of Richelieu's horse, before swinging up into the saddle and riding away.

"Kill him!" Richelieu screeched at the soldiers around him that had bows and arrows, "And don't hit my horse!"

Arrows flew through the air like rain, but Treville rode on. Just as he reached the bridge that crossed the Seine and it appeared that he was about to be out of range, one struck him. Treville let out a second yell of pain before he tumbled off the horse. But he did not just fall off of his horse, no. He fell over the side of the bridge and down in to the dark mass of the river.

Arrows followed him into the water.

"Save your arrows." Richelieu scolded. "Let the traitor rot in his watery grave. Keep searching for the gypsies, and keep burning Paris to the ground if that is what is required."

d'Artagnan and Athos had rushed with some of the other Parisians to look over the bridge. Treville did not resurface. d'Artagnan stared down at the dark water in disbelief, urging Treville to be ok and to break the surface.  "Go back to the Court." Athos said next to him.

d'Artagnan looked up to find to his surprise that Athos was talking to him.

"What?"

"Go back to the Court. And by no means follow me."

d'Artagnan was about to ask where he should not follow Athos, but his question was answered for him when Athos suddenly jumped onto the stone walling of the bridge and dove straight into the water.

d'Artagnan flew forwards in shock, crying out and clinging to the dry stone of the bridge, staring down into the water, terrified when Athos  did not reappear either. d'Artagnan was once again forced to remember the last time he had clung to stone and looked down at dark, lonely waters because of Richelieu. But this time he had someone to save. Fears and Athos' instructions be damned, he was following him in. He could not just leave them. He began to climb onto the wall as well until a hand from behind him grabbed him by the cloak and sharply pulled him back down.

"Did he not say that you should not follow him?" d'Artagnan was surprised to find the voice in his ear was female, and unfamiliar.

d'Artagnan turned around and came face to face with another cloaked and hooded figure. Beneath that hood was one of the most beautiful women d'Artagnan had ever seen. However, the fact that she was watching him like a concerned and frustrated aunt was a little disconcerting.

"Who are you?" d'Artagnan demanded, "Let me go!"

"Not if you are going to follow Athos in there. The soldiers did not see him go in after Treville but do not risk them seeing you and putting all three of your lives in danger." she shrugged, "If Treville is still alive, that is."

d'Artagnan gaped at her bluntness. He hated her for suggesting that Treville may not have survived.

"Go back to the Court before you are seen." She snapped, "It is you Richelieu really wants most. So stay away from him and go."

"But Athos..."

"I will assist him if needs be. But he told you not to follow him. And he will expect you to obey those orders. He won't thank you for disobeying them and putting yourself in unnecessary danger. So go back to the Court now."

"Who are you?" d'Artagnan demanded. Who was this woman who thought she knew and could speak for Athos?

"Athos' wife." She said shortly. "Now go."

d'Artagnan blinked, but was not phased. Athos had told them all about his wife, and d'Artagnan had expected to run in to her at some point. "But you work for Richelieu..."

Her face grew dark and sterner - a terrifying beauty - "I work for myself before I work for anyone else. I will not ask you again, d'Artagnan."

And he did not know if he was crazy to trust her, but d'Artagnan took one more look down at the river, prayed Athos and Treville would be alright, and then followed Athos' (and Milady's) order. He turned and ran for the Court.

*

Completely oblivious to the dramas that were happening not too far away, Porthos was finding it hard to concentrate on anything at all. Damn, Aramis had talented hands. And a talented mouth.

Aramis grinned up at him in a manner that was every inch sinful, and Porthos muffled a groan on his fist as Aramis gave the head of his cock a slow, leisurely lick. He could not be too loud, what with being outside and in hiding, but Aramis was making it terribly difficult to remain in any way composed. Aramis was living up to his promises by telling Porthos every little thing he loved about him, in a tone that dripped with smooth seduction from a gifted tongue. He moved his mouth away from Porthos' cock especially to tell him that he loved Porthos' cock, though Porthos would have preferred him to show him how much rather than tell him. "And your eyes and your lips." Aramis told him, breath ghosting over him, lips tantalizingly close, "Oh and your nose..." Aramis added.

The moment broke as Porthos looked down at him confusion. "What about my nose?"

"I love it." Aramis said, pulling back and making Porthos regret that he'd asked. "Your nose is the most adorable thing."

Porthos wrinkled said nose up slightly under the attention, "Is it?"

"Mmhmm." Aramis hummed, taking Porthos' cock in hand again so as to reach up and kiss the tip of his nose. "It is the cutest thing in all of Paris."

"I'm sure there are cuter things."

"Oh, I doubt that."

Aramis shifted position, pressing himself closer to Porthos to kiss him, open mouthed and filthy as his hand picked up the pace. Porthos could taste himself on Aramis' wicked tongue.

"And your smile," Aramis whispered, bringing his free hand round to clench in Porthos' hair, always careful to avoid his wounded shoulder. "God, it's like the sun. And I know Athos and d'Artagnan think the same."

"They do?" Porthos panted, feeling closer to the edge, before Aramis recognised the signs of it and slowed down again. Porthos huffed in frustration.

"Uh-huh." Aramis laughed. "They have told me so."

Porthos normally was embarrassed by praise and compliments, but when Aramis was saying them like this, Porthos would accept whatever the man said. It was yet another power of his.

"You don't mind that I'm not using my mouth do you?" Aramis asked, lips grazing Porthos in the teasing of another kiss, "It's just I want to see your face when you come." Aramis' eyes were intent on his face, flicking back and forth as though taking in every shift in Porthos' expression. "Because it is always such a stunning sight. You don't mind me using my hand instead, do you?"

Porthos shook his head immediately, "Just so long as it moves faster."

"I think it can do that." Aramis promised, and then he carried that promise through. They were kissing again, until they were panting into each other's mouths as Porthos drew closer and closer.

"Come for me?" Aramis asked, suddenly all sweet innocence, but with saliva shined and swollen lips and eyes as black as the darkening sky above. What else could Porthos do but obey?

Aramis' name passed his lips when he came, and Aramis shuddered against him, eyes intent on his face, his pupils blowing impossibly wider.

"Wow." Porthos said once he was back to himself, flopping his head back against the tree trunk behind him. After Aramis had tucked him away, he used his good arm to haul Aramis closer onto his lap. "You said something about doing yourself?" Porthos asked, "Can I help with that or not?"

"If you use your good arm, maybe." Aramis said, voice liquid sex, "But I warn you I won't last long."

"Watching me get off is enough for you, is it?" Porthos shot him a lazy, contented grin.

"You know it is," Aramis said, unashamed, probably because he knew how much it turned Porthos on that just watching him was enough for Aramis. Aramis smirked at him, "I have already blown your ego up far enough tonight."

"By calling my nose _cute_?"

"Well, it is." Aramis tweaked it, looking fond. Porthos scowled playfully back at him. Aramis smiled, "So, are you going to help me out?"

Aramis had not been lying, it only took a couple of minutes with both their hands before Aramis was panting out his little 'ah, ah, ah's of warning, and he was spilling over their joined hands, breathing raggedly into Porthos' neck.

They laid out side by side on the grass, Aramis floppy and blissed-out in his comedown.

"I cannot wait until my shoulder is better enough that you say I am allowed to fuck you again." Porthos spoke up to the sky.

"Oh really?" Aramis' voice gave away that he was grinning widely. "Well I cannot wait until you fuck me again." He rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand and trailing the other over Porthos' skin, visible in the long V of his shirt. "Do you know how I want you to fuck me?"

"No, but good god do I want you to tell me."

Aramis laughed lightly, eyes glinting. "Well, we will start out slow. You will kiss me in to submission and I will be in the palm of your hands. Whilst we are kissing, you are going to manhandle me back, because the lord gave you such big, gorgeous hands, and then you are going to open me up, slowly, with your fingers and your tongue."

Porthos moaned quietly under his breath. "What next?" He urged.

"Well," Aramis started, walking his fingers up Porthos' chest. "Athos and d'Artagnan will be there too, of course, but they will be busy with each other, because I know how you like to watch them; Athos has that special kind of care for d'Artagnan, he is gentle and tender and can get wound up by him so easily...you know what I mean."

Porthos did know what Aramis meant; Athos had a special, secret smile and treatment for each of them. d'Artagnan was treated like he was precious, Porthos like he was familiar and comforting, and Aramis with an endlessly fond exasperation.

"And what about you?" Porthos asked, eager to add to his mental image of Athos and d'Artagnan beside them.

"I will have eyes only for you. You will have caught my full attention. A rare feat only you three have ever been able to manage. And you will tease me and wind me up and up until I am desperate for it. And we are going to worship you like you deserve. And then, finally, you will fold me in half and fuck me long and slow..."

"Jesus, Aramis," Porthos shut his eyes and shifted, arousal coursing through him, "You look so gorgeous like that, when you take me like that."

"Tell me," Aramis encouraged, "Please."

"You always look unnaturally beautiful, but even more so when you are lit up with lust and love. It makes it even more special in that only the three of us ever get to see you that way. Your skin is so hot under my fingers but you're so calm when you are under me. The calmest you ever are. Like you trust being in my hands. I love it when you get pliant and start to beg me, with your pretty words..."

"I have only ever been that way for the three of you. Only ever for you." Aramis told him quietly, in a moment of raw honesty. "I am yours forever, if you will have me."

"Always." Porthos breathed, that confession hitting him harder than all that had come before it. He shifted again, "We had best stop, much more of this talk and I'll be hard again."

"d'Artagnan would be by now," Aramis sighed loudly, "Ah, to be young and spritely again."

Porthos laughed. "d'Artagnan loves your stories too much, you are nearly always what gets him going again."

"I cannot help it." Aramis shrugged, "I am what I am."

Porthos pulled him down to him. "What you are," He said, grazing his lips against Aramis', and just when Aramis moved to kiss him properly, Porthos pulled away again, teasing, keeping their lips brushing, but not pressing together. "Is beautiful enough to turn every head. Mysterious enough to have a hundred stories." Aramis attempted to kiss him again and huffed in frustration when Porthos pulled the same maneuver. "And kind enough to protect what is yours." He finally let Aramis claim a kiss with a grin.

Aramis' smile was radiant when they pulled apart, "You are too kind to me, my love." He trailed fingers down Porthos' face, "I love you, you know."

"You tell me often." Porthos said. And he felt blessed for it every single time.

"Well expect to hear it twice as much from all three of us. You scared us so much the other day." Aramis fingers moved to Porthos' injured shoulder. "We love you and need you. Which is why I am determined you wait for your shoulder to heal properly."

"If that is what you think is best, I will be patient." Porthos promised, knowing how much it meant to Aramis, "I know you're worried, but I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you. Neither is Athos, and neither is d'Art."

"I pray to God that you are right, my love." Aramis rested his head on Porthos' chest and Porthos thought he could see the first star emerge from through the smoke above them.

 *

Porthos and Aramis had drifted off to sleep together by the time d'Artagnan stumbled up to them, having run all the way from the burning mill.

Porthos was the first to wake, aware even in sleep of unusual movement around him. Aramis slept on, his face buried into Porthos' chest, his hand curled up in front of his face. Porthos would have taken a moment to appreciate how Aramis could look so uncharacteristically innocent in sleep (like he usually took a moment to do) if he had not looked up to see d'Artagnan crash in to view.

d'Artagnan looked wild, wide-eyed and terrified, looking worryingly similar to how he had had the evening of the Festival, when the fates of Porthos, Athos and Aramis had been unknown and uncertain to him.

"d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked, unable to hide his concern, "What is it?"

"It's Athos...he...I..."

"Huh?" Aramis started awake when Porthos flinched under him and started to sit up. "Porthos?" He muttered tiredly, "Wha..."

"d'Art." Porthos asked, dread building quickly in the pit of his stomach. Where was Athos? Why was d'Artagnan looking so afraid and upset? "What about Athos?"

d'Artagnan crumpled to his knees. Aramis snapped to alertness and caught him just before he hit the floor, helping him carefully the rest of the way, sending Porthos a glance that reflected Porthos' fear back at him.

"Hey," Aramis started softly, lifting d'Artagnan's face with gentle fingers. "Hey, my star. d'Art, look at me. Please."

d'Artagnan's eyes lifted to lock on to Aramis'.

"d'Art," Aramis started, and Porthos was impressed at how Aramis kept his voice so level and calm when he knew he was panicking inside. "Where is Athos? You have to tell us so we can help."

And so d'Artagnan told them the whole story. Porthos looked across to where the burning mill could be seen not all that far away. He had not been there. Athos had not wanted him there. Athos had sent d'Artagnan back. And now Athos could still be somewhere in the Seine. Porthos did not even begin to wonder the motives of Athos' ex-wife in making sure d'Artagnan came back to the Court. Was she really meaning to help them? Or did she not want d'Artagnan there so she could make sure Athos stayed in the river for good?  He hoped it was the former, and Athos was strong enough, and a confident swimmer, to keep himself from drowning, Porthos was sure, unless of course, the soldiers came back to check Treville was dead and found Athos in the process.

"I'm so sorry." d'Artagnan gasped out, "I didn't know what to do. Athos told me to come back and he ordered it of me and then his wife was there and I was panicking and I know we should have come to you but Treville saved Henri's family and we just wanted to help and Athos was determined to go and I didn't want him to go alone but then I left him and I'm so so sorry I..."

"Hey." Porthos joined Aramis, crouched before d'Artagnan, and reached out to hold d'Artagnan's shoulder, hoping to anchor him. "d'Artagnan, stop. Listen to me...listen."

d'Artagnan's final apologies died on his lips.

"You have apologised far too much recently for things that are not your fault." Porthos insisted, his words firm and honest, "It is not your fault. _This_ is not your fault. Athos told you to leave and you did the right thing to obey him. Athos can handle himself, he always has."

Aramis' hand subtly slipped into Porthos' other hand where d'Artagnan could not see. He knew what Aramis' gesture meant, that Aramis was worried, despite Porthos' reassurances. Porthos knew, because he felt the same. "He'll be fine." He said, for all of their benefits, "He has to be, and if Athos has his way, he will be bringing Treville back with him, alive and breathing. Just you watch."

He had faith in Athos, he was one of the strongest men Porthos had ever met, and the smartest. He just hoped it would be enough for Athos to both get Treville out of the river and help him, and avoid the increased number of patrolling soldiers.

*

Athos' hand slammed on to the muddy bank of the Seine and he clawed his fingers in to the mud as he tried to find purchase. It was harder one-handed, because the other he had wrapped around Captain Treville.

Athos had found Treville in a minute after diving in, sunk beneath the water, but it had taken him another five to strip Treville of some of his heavy armour (the arrow was gone from Treville's body, which meant it had either snapped off or Treville had pulled it out before falling properly unconscious) and pull him through the water to the bank.

Athos gasped out a breath, sucked another in, and then made to haul Treville out of the water. He had not been aware of the person standing on the riverside until hands descended on Treville, helping to drag him on to the bank. Athos looked up into the darkness and tried to make out the cloaked figure. If it was Richelieu, or one of his men, then Athos was pulling Treville straight back in with him again. "Who are you?" Athos asked, accidentally swallowing water in the process and coughing it back up again.

The figure lowered their hood, and Athos nearly let go of the bank. "I really need to get used to seeing you alive." He deadpanned, staring suspiciously up at Milady.

"Do you want my help or not?" She snapped in response, reaching out a hand to him.

Athos hesitated before taking it. He dragged himself onto the bank, slipping in the mud and took a moment to catch his breath, his eyes scanning the surroundings, half-surprised not to see d'Artagnan there, disobeying his orders, and concerned that he was not.

"For pity's sake, Athos. If it is that boy of yours you are looking for, I made sure he went back to the Court where you sent him. He's been gone almost as long as you have been in the water."

Athos let out a sigh of relief, before turning to Treville's still form. He quickly removed the rest of the armour, tossing it carelessly behind him back in to the river, until Treville was wearing only his undershirt and trousers. Treville was still breathing, but it was a raspy, laboured breath. When Athos looked to see where Treville had been shot, he found the wound high on Treville's chest; the arrow had missed his heart by a fraction. The arrow was no longer in him.

Athos was aware of Milady just standing there and watching him work, but he kept his focus on Treville. After a little coaxing, Treville lurched awake, turning to cough water and blood up on to the bank. Athos patted his back carefully, "Easy, Treville, easy."

"Athos?" Treville coughed in confusion, squinting up at him, "How?"

"Athos." Milady cut in, "We cannot stay here, we have to get him help."

"Do you have any suggestions?"

"In actual fact, I do."

*

Constance abandoned the dishes when she heard the knock on the door and dried her hands on her apron as she walked to answer it. It was a late hour for someone to be calling, and she brushed aside the fear that it was Judge Richelieu's men come to search her home. She pressed her ear against the door for a moment, just in case, but was surprised to overhear the most bizarre conversation happening through the wood between muffled voices that she was not sure she recognised:

"I did not know you meant to bring him _here._ "

"Did you have any better ideas?"

Constance opened the door to find three people on her doorstop. One was a soaking wet and muddy Athos, one a woman Constance had never seen before, and between them, an arm slung over each of their shoulders, was "Captain Treville?" Constance asked in concern.

"Constance," Athos started, "We are very sorry to disturb you. Is your husband in?"

"He is asleep in the next room." Constance said, keeping her voice quiet. "What on earth has happened?"

"Richelieu burned down Henri's mill." Athos told her, "Treville saved Henri and his family and Richelieu had him shot for it. Richelieu thinks he is dead. I could not get him all the way to the Court, but if your husband is in we will go and..."

"You will not go anywhere." Constance interrupted. "Bring him up to the guest room. I will see what I can do to fix him up."

"But your husband..."

"I am capable of crafting a lie, Athos. Bring him in."

Her husband Jacques was a heavy sleeper, but it was still by some miracle that they got Treville up the stairs and onto the bed without Jacques waking up. "You should go." She told Athos and his companion. "I will need to wake my husband for his help with Treville, and he likes him, he will help. You, however, I would not be able to explain."

"The woman speaks sense, Athos." The woman said. "I must go. I suggest you do the same." And with that, the woman was gone without another word or a second glance. She was so quiet in her leaving that Constance barely heard the front door go.

"Who was that?" Constance turned to Athos, to find him perched on the edge of the bed. Treville was awake.

"I am going to leave you in the capable hands of the Bonacieux's." Athos told Treville softly. "You are lucky, you know, that arrow almost pierced your heart."

"Thank you." Treville told him hoarsely, clasping Athos' hand.

"I will come by and see you when I next can." Athos told him. "Just get better."

Athos stood from the bed and took Constance's hands. "Athos," Constance gasped, "You are as cold as ice!"

"I am sorry to throw all this upon you." Athos said, ignoring her concern, "Milady was right, this was the only place I could think of to bring him where he could be kept hidden and safe."

"You chose well." Constance reassured him, to show him she did not think he had made the wrong decision. "How is d'Artagnan?"

Athos' jaw ticked, before he replied, "As far as I know he is back at the Court, and I need to get back to him, if you are positive with my leaving the Captain with you."

"Of course," Constance made to show him out, but then he stopped again.

"That woman I was with, I did not know she knew about you. If she comes back here asking questions about us, do not tell her."

"Is she not to be trusted?" Constance asked, confused as to how Athos did not trust the woman who had helped him save Treville.

Athos just sighed, "I do not know. Just be careful if she comes back. d'Artagnan told us he gave you the pendant for the Court, keep it safe and do not show it to her."

"Ok, Athos."

Athos pressed a cold kiss to the backs of her fingers. "Thank you, my friend."

"Go away, Athos." Treville moaned from the bed, "Get to safety and let me get patched up."

Athos laughed lightly, "I will only be back if it is safe to do so."

"I understand." Constance said, "Now do as your Captain commands."

Athos nodded his thanks, before disappearing down the stairs and slipping quietly out of the door. Constance followed him down a moment after, already crafting the lie she needed to tell to her husband for when she woke him, and hurrying to get her medical supplies. She also made sure she took a big bottle of alcohol back up with her and it was not just for cleaning the wound. Treville was going to need it.

*

Athos was frozen through to the bone when he arrived back at the Court. He had not dared stop to dry himself off and his teeth were beginning to chatter. Not even the dry, smoky warmth that drifted from the burning city had helped him.

He checked he had not been followed before lifting the heavy stone over the entrance and climbing down the stairs. It was almost exactly like the night that he had saved Porthos and joined the Court all those years ago, because the moment he set foot into the torch-lit passageway, he was rushed and wrapped up in a hug. The only difference this time was that it was not just Porthos and Aramis who had been waiting for him. Athos looked down at d'Artagnan's dark hair and smiled thankfully, folding his arms around him tightly. Athos did not have to voice his gladness that d'Artagnan had followed his orders and gotten back to the Court safely, and d'Artagnan did not speak of his clear happiness at seeing Athos return to them alive.

Eventually d'Artagnan let go and immediately Porthos took his place, holding him close and pressing his face into Athos' shoulder. "You are an idiot." Porthos whispered, like he was angry with him but too relieved to be. "Is Treville...?"

"Alive." Athos said.

Porthos held him for a long time, and Athos was only too happy to hold him back.

Finally, Aramis took his turn, his hand sliding into wet hair and lips pressing against his cold neck. "You smell like a pond." Aramis told him.

Athos laughed.

Porthos wrapped him up in a blanket that they had clearly had waiting for him, and for a moment, everything was alright again.

* * *

 

 

**17 January 1482**

 

"I do not understand it!" Richelieu ranted, pacing in his rooms. He had just been visited by yet another soldier to inform him that the day's search had been useless; no gypsies or traitorous commoners to be found anywhere. He had been so angry he had sent them all away and now he was talking to himself, because in the end, his counsel was the only one he could really trust. "There must be hundreds of them still in the city. Where do they go? Where do they hide? Why has there been no trace of d'Artagnan?! Or Porthos or Athos or that witch?! Why?!"

He wanted them in his hands, powerless to his plans. He wanted d'Artagnan to burn, he wanted d'Artagnan to live and bow to him. He wanted d'Artagnan under him. Begging him. Calling his name. He wanted them all to die. He wanted to keep them and watch them suffer. He wanted them.

He shook himself from his confusing, sinful thoughts and marched to the window and looked out over the city, which was still smouldering from the fires of the days before. None had been lit today because there had been nothing to find. Richelieu's gaze came to rest on the Notre Dame Cathedral, standing tall across the city, untouched by flame or ruin. After all his renewed efforts of clearing Paris of its vermin he had not stopped to really think about Athos and Aramis' escape from the Notre Dame on the day of the Festival. But now, he allowed himself to wonder;

"How did those two escape the Notre Dame?" He asked himself, "I had the entire Cathedral surrounded. There were guards at every door. There was no way they could have escaped." He paused as a thought came to him, a thought that evolved before his very eyes as though a higher power was assisting him, unravelling threads that had always been tangled to him and setting them out in a clear, obvious line that he could not believe he had missed before. "Unless..." He said, glancing behind him at the door to his room, which led back into the Palace of Justice.

He knew now what it was he needed to do. After years and years he could see an end to his mission, after the most sudden revelation. It was so obvious. It was enough to make him laugh. And so he did.

*

Milady had burned Athos' house - Olivier's house, _their home_ \- to the ground two years ago. Athos did not know because as far as she knew he had never returned to the house, and no-one on his old lands knew where he was or how to reach him to tell him. She had watched it roar up in red flames and she had basked in the glow. She knew there were portraits still in that house of Olivier and her and Thomas and she wished she could see them curl up and be consumed by the fire. She had felt satisfied in the first stage of her quest for revenge, to make herself forget the sorry mess she wished to forget.

It had been, she realised as she looked down at Paris below her and across to the where the mill had stood not two days before, the only time she had enjoyed watching something burn.

A short, abrupt knock on the door had her turning around, and before she could answer, Judge Richelieu had entered.

"Armand," She said, masking her surprise to see him, it was growing late in the evening, "Can I help you?"

"I think that you can." Richelieu said, closing the door behind him.

Milady smoothed her skirts and walked to the cabinet in her room, "Wine? Grapes?"

Richelieu inclined his head in a nod, but she noted he kept his eyes on her, "Thank you."

Milady took two goblets, a bottle of wine and a plate of grapes, carrying them over to a small wooden table close to the window.

Richelieu sat himself down opposite her, taking the goblet and sipping the wine, his eyes still watching her closely. She pretended that she had not noticed, taking a large swallow of her own wine before picking at the grapes.

“Is there something troubling you, Milady?” Richelieu asked her.

She looked up at him to find his gaze still fixed disconcertingly upon her. “Not at all.” She said.

“Oh, but there is.” Richelieu said. “I know there is.”

“I do not think that…”

“I have discovered something, you see, Milady.”

Milady ate another grape. It tasted like ash in her mouth. “Oh?”

“I had a moment of enlightenment earlier today. I realised I had not followed some leads that became glaringly obvious to me in a moment of clarity.”

Milady suddenly realised that she was potentially in deep, deep trouble. “And what leads were those?”

“You. For instance.”

“Me?”

“You. I suddenly realised, you see, that you were far too good an informant.”

“I thought that you wanted talented creatures, Sir. Otherwise you would not be as close to trapping those gypsies as you are now.”

“ _Those gypsies_ are precisely the problem, Milady. You knew too much about them; Athos, in particular. I asked Captain Treville the other day – before the Seine claimed him – all about Athos, or Olivier d’Athos de la Fere. With him having been Athos’ Captain and friend before Athos’ treachery, I thought he of all people would know most about Athos’ past. And do you know what I discovered?”

Milady could guess. She knew she had been too ready to give up information on Athos. “What did you discover?”

“Nothing.” Richelieu said. “Apparently Athos was as silent as the grave about his past. Apart from the odd detail that was general knowledge, apparently the man was a complete and utter mystery. And yet, you knew everything that there was to know. You did, however, miss out one tiny detail.”

Oh god. He knew. She could see it in his eyes that he knew. “And what was that?”

“That Athos was married before he joined my service. He had his wife executed for murdering his brother, but according to a certain blacksmith that one of my ‘friends’ went and questioned today, she did not die as Athos had thought.” Richelieu was watching her, “That wife was you, if I am not mistaken?”

Milady scoffed, “I do not…”

Richelieu slammed his goblet down on the table, hard. Wine sloshed over the sides. He leant over the table toward her menacingly, his eyes as venomous as she had ever seen them, “Do not deny anything to me, Milady. Do not bother with your twisted, wicked lies. I know who you are. And I know what you did. I saw you enter the Notre Dame that night, I thought you were merely there to observe them. But you didn’t just watch them did you? You helped them escape!” His hand slammed down again, and he was half on his feet and he looked insane in his fury. He poked her hard under her collar bone, “And now all of Paris is burning, because of you!”

“I do not know any way out of the Notre Dame that you do not know of.” Milady insisted, seething that he dared lay a hand on her.

Richelieu sniffed and sat back, face set again. “I think you know a lot of things that I do not know of. I do not know what your intentions are; betraying your husband one moment and helping him the next. Though, I think, you are not quite sure of that yourself.”

“Athos is nothing to me anymore. Why do you think I have been helping to bring them all down?”

“Have you? Your search for the Court of Miracles has been fruitless, you helped Athos and Aramis escape the Notre Dame. You have not given me any new information of note since your first few days in Paris. You have utterly failed me.”

She waited for him to call the guards, now that his suspicions had been confirmed and she had not denied to being Athos’ wife. She waited for him to call the guards to arrest her and sentence her to death. The scars around her neck burned with memory and her breath came out stuttered and short for a moment. But Richelieu did nothing. He just regarded her calculatingly, before suddenly reaching forward and tracing his fingers down her own. It took all of her power not to cringe and pull them away.

“But how can I blame you when you have clearly been swept up by their cunning and heathen treachery? Mistaking it for kindness and helplessness. A woman’s sense of reason can never overcome her heart.” Richelieu said, fond and patronising as though Milady was not someone capable of the crimes she had committed (that he knew she had committed) and just some innocent maiden caught up in something far bigger than her. “I can tell you now, that that _nobleman_ you fell in love is now as much a gypsy as any of them. He is a gypsy, and gypsies are not capable of real love. But do not fear, Milady,” The bastard really looked like he was enjoying himself now, “He will be out of our lives soon enough, and you will be free from their evil spell, and I will be free of all of them. Athos will torment you no longer. And the four of them will no longer torment me.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“Oh, my plan is already in motion.” He said, smiling that odd, sinister smile, “Because there is _one_ thing that _I_ know that you do not. You could not find the Court of Miracles, and thus became of no use to me, because I have finally, finally found it myself.” His hand clenched triumphantly in the air, joyous, as though he was catching an invisible key to the Court. “I finally know where they are hiding. And tomorrow at dawn, I attack with a thousand men.”

*

Constance opened the door to persistent knocking and found Milady standing on the other side. She refrained from closing the door a fraction and stood tall and confident. "Can I help you?"

Something in Milady's face ticked before she asked, "Is Treville still here?"

"Yes." Constance told her, "He is recovering well from last night. The wound was thankfully shallower than I first feared."

Her husband Jacques had been surprisingly valuable in Treville's treatment and eager to help. Constance had told him that she had found Treville wounded on the street and as he was the Captain, she had brought him in. If Jacques had later heard that Captain Treville was now, in fact, supposedly dead under Judge Richelieu's orders, Jacques had not mentioned it once. Or maybe he was still ignorant to the fact, she did not know and did not dare to ask whilst he had been so helpful and Treville was in a safe place.

"I need to speak with him." Milady said, and Constance was immediately suspicious. Athos had warned her about this very thing.

"Now may not be the best time, he is most likely still sleeping." Constance made to close the door, but Milady stuck her foot in the way and jammed it.

"I have to see him. Now." It was only then than Constance realised that Milady was not as composed as she might have appeared. She looked panicked and, was that fear in her eyes? "It's urgent." She insisted, already pushing her way in and past Constance, who, now believing that the matter really was of urgency, was less resistant.

Constance followed Milady upstairs. The taller woman barged in to the bedroom with no announcement whatsoever and woke him with a sharp "Treville!"

Treville blinked awake and stared up at her. "I know you." He said, throat raspy from sleep.

"Then you know that I know Athos."

"I know that you were married to Athos."

Constance did a double take...Milady and Athos? That made little to no sense to her at all. Athos had told her not to trust Milady, and he had not known whether he even trusted her himself. But then Treville had said _'were',_ which suggested the marriage was over (at least ten years ago if it was to fit in to how long she had known him, plus he had d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos now) and that it may have been Milady's mistrustfulness that had been a factor in it.

"A long time ago." Milady said. "And he needs your help. All of them do; Athos, Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan and the rest."

"d'Artagnan?" Constance asked, "Why do they need help? What's going on?"

Milady ignored her. "Treville, you need to show me where the Court of Miracles is, or tell me at least."

Treville looked up at her in honest confusion, "I don't know where the Court is."

"What?" Milady sounded incredulous, "After all your years of being friends to the gypsies you do not know where it is?!"

"Of course not." Treville spoke like Milady was the one who sounded absurd, "It was too dangerous for me to know. And I did not want to." Treville's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Why do you want to know? You are Richelieu's creature. Why do you think I would tell you even if I did know?"

"Because Richelieu came to me tonight. He told me that he knew I had helped Athos and Aramis escape the Notre Dame. And he said that it did not matter that I was unfaithful to him, because he has no use for me anymore. He knows where the Court is now - I assume someone like Rochefort has found out - and he said he is attacking it at dawn with a thousand of his men."

"What?" Treville gasped, lurching upwards and attempting to get out of bed, groaning as he did so. "I knew he was growing in confidence, but I did not dare to think that it was because he was getting closer to finding out."

Constance's heart felt like it had caught in her throat. "What do we do?"

"We have to warn them." Milady said.

“Why would you want to help them? You were informing on them to Richelieu.”

“I want my own revenge on Athos. I thought Richelieu would be a method to get close to him, but I was wrong. I would not wish Richelieu upon my worst enemy, and I do not want Richelieu’s revenge on Athos to be mine.” Her brutal honesty about wanting revenge on Athos was startling, but it meant that Constance was becoming more inclined to believe what she had to say.

“You would kill Athos?” Constance could not help herself asking, “If Richelieu does not get there first?

“No.” Milady snapped, “I would not kill him. I would not stoop to his level. But that does not matter tonight. Tonight I would not see Athos dead, injured, arrested or otherwise. Tonight I intend to save him, if you two would just help me.”

Treville was clearly convinced; "I do not know where the Court is but if we..." he started.

Milday interrupted. " _She_ does."

Constance found both eyes in the room fixed on her. It was the first time Milady had really given her any kind of focused attention, and Constance felt more than a little self-conscious.

“I have never been to the Court.” Constance said slowly.

“That does not mean that you do not have the means to go.” Milady was looking at her pointedly. “I overheard Athos talking to you last night. He told you not to trust me and to keep the ‘pendant for the Court’ safe? I assume, by that secrecy, that you do know the way. You are just hesitant to tell me because Athos warned you that I should not be trusted if I came asking.”

Milady had just voiced Constance’s concerns out loud. Constance did have the pendant, she could feel it against her chest, where she had tucked it into the corseted top of her dress, just in case Richelieu and his soldiers came knocking to search the house. But Athos’ warning was weighing on her mind. Milady had done exactly what Athos had said she might do. She had come back asking for information, asking directly for the Court, even. And Constance did not know what to do. She trusted Athos, she did not trust Milady. But if what Milady was saying was true, they only had until dawn to warn the Court that Richelieu knew where they were and was coming for them. It was either to throw Athos’ warnings to the wind and believe Milady (who was acting so urgently that Constance was inclined to), or find out upon the morning that Richelieu had captured d’Artagnan, Athos, Aramis and Porthos.

Constance looked to Treville. He would decide for her. For all of them.

“If you know the way, Constance,” He began, “I think we should not underestimate Richelieu. If he says he knows, then he will not hang about and wait. He has waited too long for this.”

“He was positively gleeful that he had found it.” Milady said, her lip curling, “His pleasure in intending to massacre innocent people was quite revolting.”

And that was what swayed Constance; Milady’s undisguised hatred of the man breaking through the mask she seemed to wear, one that she wore assumedly for her own self-preservation.

“Ok.” Constance said, taking a breath and making a decision. One that she hoped would be the right one. One that she hoped would save lives. “d’Artagnan gave me a map.”

“But you know the way without looking at it and drawing attention to it?” Milady asked.

“I think so. I have it on my person if I lose my way.”

“Then we need to go, the three of us. If Treville is well enough to move the safest place for him is out of the city, Athos and the others will take him with them. You can have the map, seen as though you do not trust me with it, and we will both need to support Treville if he needs it.”

“It was not like I was going to let you leave me behind regardless.” Treville announced, hauling himself out of bed.

Constance suddenly heard steps sounding in the hallway and she started, “It’s my husband.” She hissed at them.

“I can deal with this.” Milady dismissed Constance’s panic easily.

Jacques entered the room and his mouth dropped open in surprise, “Umm, good evening?” His greeting sounded more like a question than anything else. “What is…what is going on?”

“You must be Monsieur Bonacieux.” Milady gushed, her face breaking in to a sweet, charming smile that had Constance blinking at her. “I am Captain Treville’s niece. I was staying with him in Paris when he did not return home from his patrol last night. Luckily, your wife found me in the street earlier today and told me he was here. It was very kind of her, and you, to care for him. I am forever in your debt.”

Jacques looked completely flustered at having an attractive woman flattering him so, “Oh, think nothing of it, my lady.” He said.

“Your wife insisted that she help me take him home. If that is alright with you, Monsieur?” Milady said.

“Did she?” Jacques looked across at Constance and Constance prayed he was in the mood to believe it all. “Very well, if she insists and if you require her help.”

“Oh thank you,” Milady said, moving to support Treville, “We shall not keep her long, I assure you.”

Constance followed Milady and Treville out of the room, but paused by Jacques at the door. “I will not be long.”

“Be careful. And be back as soon as you can.” He told her.

Constance was surprised to hear him worry about her safety and stared at him a moment. “I will.” She said.

He nodded at her swiftly, apparently deciding he had shown enough affection for that evening, and awkwardly moving out of her way. Constance smiled at him, genuine at that moment in her fondness for him, before making her way down the stairs and leading Milady and Treville out in to the night, in search of the Court of Miracles.

*

d’Artagnan was sitting next to Athos, listening to him tune his lute. He was worried that he was being a pest, because he had not wanted to leave Athos’ side since Athos had returned to the Court alive and well the night before. Athos, however, did not seem to mind in the slightest and had been obliging to him all day.

“How does this sound?” Athos asked, plucking at each string, and d’Artagnan hummed along with them, thinking.

“Sounds about right to me.” He told him.

Athos sent him a soft smile that made d’Artagnan feel all warm inside. “I think so too.”

Athos had just started to play one of d’Artagnan’s favourite songs, when it was drowned out by shouting across the Court.

Athos stood up to look better across the crowd. d’Artagnan glanced up at him, “What is it? Athos?”

“Aramis and Porthos are over there.” He said, eyes scanning quickly, and whatever was occurring made him put down his lute and gesture for d’Artagnan to get up, “We need to go and help.”

d’Artagnan followed him immediately, not stopping to take in the scene until they were right inside the fray. Porthos, Aramis and a couple of others were clashing in to each other, pushing and shoving and shouting.

“What is it?” Athos shouted in his most commanding voice. “What is going on damn it?”

A few people stopped fighting, and Porthos shouted at the ones still trying to, “They are not spies, they are our friends!”

“Who are spies?” Athos snapped, pushing people aside until they reached the centre of the crowd.

When they saw the cause of the commotion, Athos and d’Artagnan stopped dead. Standing in the Court, surrounded by armed Court-dwellers, who were either defending or protecting them (or not sure which to) were Constance, Captain Treville and Milady de Winter.

d’Artagnan was in front of Constance in an instant, dagger drawn and pointing it at anyone who got too close. “d’Artagnan.” He heard Constance gasp behind him.

“Stay behind me.” He ordered, letting out a snarl when a couple of men took one step too many toward them.

Athos moved in front of them as well, “These people are not spies!” He shouted to the people. “This man has been friend to us all for years! He risked his life for the miller’s family last night!" He then gestured at Constance, "And this woman has provided a safe house for gypsies!”

“And the other?” Vadim shouted.

“The other.” Athos started, and d’Artagnan saw him look back at Milady. “She is…”

“Another friend.” Milady spoke for herself.

People stopped fighting at their words and when Porthos, Aramis, Charon and Flea strode forwards, breaking the final fighting up.

“Treville. It is good to see you.” Athos said, turning to Treville.

Treville looked pale and a little unsteady, but he was standing. He looked grim and concerned.

 “We came to warn you.” Treville said, and then he shouted to the rest of the gypsies in the Court, “We came to warn you. Richelieu is coming! He will be attacking at dawn with a thousand men!”

And the anger that had initially been circulating the crowd morphed in to one of panic and terror.

d’Artagnan felt his heart turn to ice. He looked to Athos and saw Athos’ face had gotten paler. Aramis’ eyes were wide and shocked. Porthos was internally panicking; d’Artagnan could see it in his eyes, but then Porthos spoke up, “Then we must waste no time.” He ordered, his voice calm and steady in a way d’Artagnan could never have managed himself. “We must leave immediately.”

People did not stand about and question Porthos’ orders, particularly when Flea and Charon echoed the commands.

d’Artagnan turned around finally to embrace Constance, before holding her at arm’s length to check her over for injury. “Are you alright?” He asked, imagining the rough treatment she would have received arriving at the Court as an unfamiliar and potential spy.

“Yes,” She said, sounding nervous but otherwise alright.

“You took a terrible risk coming here.” Athos was saying beside him to Treville, “I know you have not been treated like it, but we are so grateful of you coming here to warn us.”

“Don’t thank me.” Treville said, “Thank Constance and Milady, without them I would never have found my way here.”

“And nor would I.” A voice said from behind them.

d’Artagnan whipped around, his breath catching in his throat in fear at the sound of that voice. Richelieu stood behind them at the entrance looking at them. d’Artagnan thought he could see the man’s thin lips draw up in a smile before hundreds of soldiers began to stream in to the Court from behind him.

d’Artagnan gripped his knife tight in his hand, as all around him people began screaming and shouting and running away, attempting to escape in different directions. d’Artagnan stayed with Constance and close to the others, because in a matter of moments, they were hopelessly surrounded. Porthos, Athos and Aramis had taken similar stances to him, weapons in hand, but it got to a point when they were in the centre of a circle of swords points, and there was no way to break through them. d’Artagnan did not have to look around the Court to know it was unlikely that anyone had managed to escape and that there were soldiers holding people hostage everywhere.

Richelieu descended the stone steps toward them. Porthos and Charon rushed forward toward him, weapons raised, only to be beaten back.

“Seize them all.” Richelieu said carelessly, watching with an expression d’Artagnan could only describe as satisfaction as the circle of soldiers descended, seizing hold of each person in their circle. d’Artagnan found himself being grabbed by two men, the dagger knocked from his hand. He struggled but found himself unable to move. Around him the others were attempting escape but were finding the same.

“After over twenty years of searching, the Court of Miracles is mine at last.” Richelieu announced, so that the whole Court could hear him. He wandered into their midst, as though thoroughly enjoying an afternoon stroll, pausing when he reached Milady, “Oh, Milady,” He said, “I knew that you would be of use to me at some point.”

“What are you talking about?” Milady snarled at him.

“Why, you led me right to them, my dear.”

“You are a liar.” She spat, pushing against the soldiers who held her.

Richelieu ignored her and carried on to his next prisoners. “So here they are,” He said, moving past Flea and Charon before stopping at Porthos, watching him closely, “The infamous gypsies of the Court of Miracles. The Kings and Queen of the Court…” He looked at the three of them as though they had impressed him by evading him for so long, and by doing so, demeaning them. It made d’Artagnan angry, despite his fear, that he would dare look at any of them in such a way.

Richelieu then carried on past Athos “The traitorous soldier finally brought to justice. Your old comrades will be excited to see you, Athos.” Richelieu smiled to himself as he continued, “Traitorous; like husband like wife, I suppose.”

He paused at Aramis, “The witch who survived Savoy,” he looked Aramis up and down, intrigued by him as though he was not quite human, “A cunning, suspicious creature,” He commented.

And then he reached d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan looked up into those eyes and was unable to stop seeing the memories of his recent nightmare in the back of his mind; of his lovers dead at his feet, Richelieu standing over him just like this. Even after all these years, his dreams formed Richelieu’s eyes perfectly, forever branded in the darkest corners of d’Artagnan’s memory. And Richelieu’s eyes were laughing at him, now, triumphant. And the happenings of d’Artagnan’s nightmare seemed to becoming more and more possible by the second.

But there was something else in Richelieu’s eyes too that d’Artagnan had not seen in them when he had been a boy. Something he could not interpret, and something he severely mistrusted. “And the boy who escaped me.” Richelieu spoke of him, and d’Artagnan suppressed a shudder, not wanting to give the Judge the satisfaction. d’Artagnan hoped Richelieu would move past him like he had the others, but he was not so lucky. Richelieu raised his hand, and d’Artagnan tensed, expecting to be struck. Instead, Richelieu brushed dark strands of hair back from his face. d’Artagnan flinched back, eyes flying from Richelieu to find Athos, Aramis or Porthos. He found Porthos first, and saw Porthos’ eyes ignited in fury. Porthos saw him look to him, and gave a minute shake of his head, warning d’Artagnan not to say or do anything. The warning did not matter, in the end, because the second d’Artagnan had flinched under his touch and looked away, it was as though the moment was broken, and Richelieu retracted his hand as though d’Artagnan had burned him. “Twisted heathens and sinners all,” He said, finally moving on.

d’Artagnan forced his eyes away from Porthos when Richelieu reached Treville and barked a laugh that held no amusement whatsoever, “And look who else I have caught in my net; Captain Treville back from the dead. Another ‘miracle’ no doubt.” Treville lunged at him, but was held back at the last moment. Richelieu sneered and leant in to his face, “But, I shall remedy that.”

He swept away with a flourish of his long, dark robes and moved up to the gallows stage so, d’Artagnan assumed, that he could look down upon all the people he had longed for so long to destroy and to count all the lives he was going to stamp out.

“There will be a little bonfire in the square tomorrow.” Richelieu announced loudly to them all, his voice carrying and echoing around the stone walls of the Court. His eyes lingered on Aramis and d’Artagnan as they travelled over the angry and terrified faces watching him, and d’Artagnan felt his blood run cold. “And you are all invited to attend.”

He turned away, like he had lost interest in them all, which was clearly feigned, because it was obvious the man was trying to contain his glee, like a sadistic child that had just been given a whole shop of new toys to take apart, destroy and burn. “Lock them up.” He ordered of his men, and as d’Artagnan felt irons clap down around his wrists and was dragged out of the Court, he knew, with mounting dread, that Richelieu’s most longed for toys were him, Porthos, Aramis and Athos, and that they would be the toys he would most likely ruin first.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are following on from the boy's capture in the Court, so still on the date 17 January 1482...

There was screaming coming from somewhere above.

And the grate above d’Artagnan was dripping.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Slow and sluggish. Loud in the near quiet of the cells.

The silence would be broken every so often by a wail, a plea, or one of those screams from above.

And that consistent drip, drip, drip.

A drop landed on d’Artagnan’s face and he twitched. He lifted a hand to rub it from his skin. The heavy iron cuffs holding his wrists together in front of him were heavy and made the movement an effort. His chains clanked together loudly. He did not dare look down at his hands to find out whether the drop that he had wiped away was just dirty water or blood. He really, really did not want to know.

The damp stone of the cell was cold at his back and he was starting to get numb from sitting on the chilly slab floor. The air smelt like decay, death, blood and piss. The underlying odour of old prisoners long since gone, but their fear was still here, tangible in the air. d’Artagnan could have known the people that had occupied this cell before. It was more than likely. And it could be their lingering terror that gripped the back of his throat in dry, desperate hands. But those old smells had since been overridden somewhat by something new; a fresh stench of loss and despair, that stifled each cell and the corridors between, and had permeated the Palace of Justice that very evening.

There had been so many people from the Court of Miracles to pack in to the cells of the Palace of Justice that night that groups of people had ended up shoved in together. Only Richelieu’s ‘favourites’ had been spared from being crammed in altogether. Constance and Milady were in a cell somewhere together and Treville in one on his own. And then, in the presumably most isolated cell (this one was more of a stone room with a heavy duty door than mere bars) d’Artagnan and the Inseparables were being held.

And _that_ , that was the worst thing about this eerie quiet, d’Artagnan realised as he shifted out of the path of the drips of…whatever it was…that was falling on him. It was not the drips, or the screams, or the silence that those terrible sounds broke, no. It was the fact that he was in the same room as his three Inseparables. And not one of them was saying a damn thing.

Initially, he had not been sure why Richelieu had even allowed the four of them to be contained together, but after a little time to wallow, d’Artagnan had realised that Richelieu probably wanted them to be able to see each other’s despair at being in an inescapable situation, and all together for when Richelieu decided to come calling. And he would come before the dawn. d’Artagnan was positive about that.

The four of them had been chained to bolts on each wall of the room. They could all see each other, but could not reach each other. The bolts and chains in place in the rooms had been set up before they arrived, and had probably been that way for years, so when the guards had dragged them all in, the guards got their pick of who was chained up in which way, which they had all taken a sickening glee over. d’Artagnan was tied toward the corner of the wall that the door inhabited, his hands shackled before him and a separate chain on his ankle. Athos was attached to the opposite wall, his hands bound similarly to d’Artagnan’s, but instead of a chain to a cuff on his leg, he had a large metal collar around his neck.  Porthos was on the wall to d’Artagnan’s left, splayed out against the stone, with chains holding his arms out to each side, like a crucifix. It meant that of the four of them, Porthos was the only one not able to sit, though the damp seeping in through d’Artagnan’s trousers proved that even that wasn’t a particularly favourable thing. Aramis was on the wall to d’Artagnan’s right. His hands had been bound behind his back and his ankle to the wall.

They had fought their capture from the moment they had been pulled from the Court, and had each received their fair share of beatings and bruises for their trouble, but the moment that they had been chained up in this room, the fight had fled. Each of them had succumbed to the silence and the morbid imaginings of what awaited them the next day.

And so, d’Artagnan was left with the drip, drip, dripping, and the failing courage to look at or speak to his lovers, in fear of the hopelessness he knew they would drive in to him further. He could hardly believe that this was happening, even as the cuffs chafed the skin of his wrists. He could scarcely believe that they were here. That Richelieu had won. That after this night he may never see his lovers again.

The thought crippled him, and he was glad that he was sitting on the floor to avoid dropping down with the force of it. Porthos, Athos and Aramis had taught him so much. They had cared for him after his father had died. They had loved him when he had not felt himself worthy of it. They had helped him to understand that the prejudice against their people was through little fault of their own. They had made him happy again and saved him from the nightmares. They always said the right thing, which made this silence so unbearable. He needed one of them to say the right thing now, to make him feel a little better.

“Right. That’s enough.” Aramis voice spoke up, finally. His words were overly loud and harsh in the despairing hush they were piercing. “I am not having this.”

d’Artagnan glanced up to find Aramis looking around at them all, his eyes wide and desperate. He was looking at them as though he was trying to take in the faces of each of them, as though he was not going to get much more of a chance to. d’Artagnan figured Aramis had been thinking similar thoughts to himself, and he was grateful for Aramis having spoken up first. He had not known whether he had the strength to.

“There is a high chance that we are going to be dying tomorrow.” Aramis said. His voice cracking from its angry command on the words ‘chance’ and ‘dying’. “And I will not have my last night with the three of you be like this. This may be our last…” His voice wobbled and he paused to drag in a breath that shivered on the edge of a sob, “Our last night together. And I need us to talk to each other. I need us to not sit this out in silence…Ok?”

“I’m sorry.” Porthos spoke immediately after Aramis had finished, clearly wanting to help comfort him. Porthos sounded strained, his voice scratchy, like he was trying to hold back tears. “Sorry.”

“I hope that apology is just for the silence and not for anything else.” Athos commented from where he was sitting against the stone, his head bowed against the metal around his neck.

“Just for the silence.” Porthos said after a moment. It wasn’t very convincing.

d’Artagnan tried to summon words to let them know that he was with them in this, but the words caught up in his throat and shrivelled on his tongue.

“d’Art?” Aramis prompted quietly, hopefully.

d’Artagnan looked up at Aramis, his lips fluttered on a smile, “I’m here.” He managed to croak.

Aramis smiled back at him, “Thank you.”

d’Artagnan swallowed down tears and nodded, his eyes finding Porthos and then Athos, and they were both looking at him too.

“d’Art.” Porthos said. d’Artagnan could not see Porthos’ eyes properly across the room through the dim lighting in the cell, but he could picture the guilt that unnecessarily filled them. “You are so young, and I’m sorry that we could not…”

“Stop.” d’Artagnan interrupted, “If you are about to say ‘I wish you had had a happier life’ or anything like that, stop. I could never have been as happy as I was…” He trailed off at the realisation of his mistake; the unavoidable sense of foreboding. “ _Am_ …” He corrected firmly, “with the three of you.” He smiled at Porthos, and Porthos sent him a weak smile in return. “Even in this godforsaken place.” He added, as another drip landed not too far away from his face.

“Well,” Aramis said lightly, “At least we will not have to spend time in this godforsaken place for too long.”

A silence descended again and Aramis was quietly cursing himself for the poor attempt to lighten the mood. They all knew the only reason they would be leaving this cell would be for execution.

“Porthos.” Aramis asked, in a second attempt at distracting them all, “How is your shoulder?”

Porthos turned his head to Aramis. The position Porthos had been secured in meant that a lot of pressure was being put on his arms and shoulders as they were kept out to his sides. It had to be putting a lot of strain on the stitched stab wound in his shoulder. He grunted as he rolled his shoulder. “It is not my greatest concern right now, Aramis, I will be honest with you.”

“It is hurting you.” Aramis concluded, sounding troubled.

“A little.” Porthos admitted, “But not as much as…” He trailed off, clearly unable to say what he was going to.

“I know, love.” Aramis sighed, picking up on what Porthos meant anyway. “I know.”

Silence threatened to take over again.

“What time do you think it is?” d’Artagnan asked, in another attempt to distract them, but even that question had two intentions; how long they had been here for, but also how long they had before dawn brought the day of their deaths. How long they still had together.

“I do not know.” Athos replied. “We have about six hours until dawn, maybe?”

“Six hours.” d’Artagnan repeated, before forcing out his fears out loud; “Richelieu will be coming at some point too, won’t he?”

“I do not doubt it.” Athos sounded tired and resigned. It was highly disconcerting hearing the lack of fight in his voice. Athos always had the fight for the cause within him, always. It was worrying that it was failing him now.

“He’ll be doing the rounds of the cells and saving us till last.” Porthos said, “Guarantee it. The sick bastard.”

“I bet five pieces of silver that he will be smiling when he comes in.” Aramis said bitterly.

“Now, Aramis, we all know that is a fool’s bet.” Athos admonished, and Aramis flashed him a macabre grin.

“Do you think his…” d’Artagnan swallowed, trying to think of the right word, “Interest? in us will keep us alive for longer?” He did not know whether he wanted that or not. He did not know which was worse, the thought of burning the next day, or suffering under Richelieu’s thumb for a few more.

“Not us.” Porthos said, voice quiet and pained, “I doubt it will help the three of us. But you…” he trailed off, “I do not know about you, d’Artagnan.”

d’Artagnan looked around at his Inseparables and his mind supplied the gruesome images of the dream he had had; Richelieu standing above him, d’Artagnan alive and suffering, staring down at the dead men at their feet. Porthos’ body mutilated, Aramis’ burnt and Athos’ still bleeding out on to the floor.

“I cannot.” He choked out, eyes wide as he blinked them rapidly, trying to expel the images from appearing vividly in the darkness of the cell, lying upon the stone cell floor. “I cannot live without the three of you.” He had half expected to descend in to a crazed, terrified rant, and was actually surprised at himself when his voice came hard and determined instead. “He cannot take you from me and keep me for himself. I would kill myself first.” His fingernails were digging so hard in to his palms that they were piercing the skin. “I would kill myself first.”

“d’Artagnan,” Athos started, concerned and attempting to reason, “If he gives you a chance at freedom…”

“But will it be freedom?” Porthos cut in, “You know as well I do, Athos, that Richelieu would not let d’Artagnan go, not for a long time at least. And the road to getting there, I doubt it would be a pleasant one.”

Athos’ defeated sigh was loud and the final push for d’Artagnan’s resolve on the matter, “I know.”

“He may not give me the choice.” d’Artagnan said, not wanting the choice to be his, “He may just kill me.” He paused. Icy tendrils curled around his insides when he realised that ‘not having a choice’ had two outcomes; “Or he may just take me.”

Neither was worth imagining, but one or the other was inevitable in d’Artagnan’s near future. He had never felt so vulnerable and out of control of his own fate. Not even when he was fighting against Richelieu over the lip of the well all those years ago. This was like standing teetering on the edge of that well for hours, and hours, looking down at the black water as it waited for him, knowing that he was going in it eventually, it was just a matter of when. And this time, there was no Treville to save him.

*

_Porthos had always said that Judge Richelieu was the most corrupt person in all of Paris, despite Richelieu’s preaching otherwise._

_Porthos would know, after all. Richelieu had been Porthos’ enemy for a long time. He had never met the man, but he knew of him, just as he was sure Richelieu had known of him in return._

_When Porthos was twenty, he had made a voodoo doll of Richelieu and stuck pins in its eyes. Unfortunately, the voodoo dolls he had been taught to make did not work that way._

_And so, Porthos had turned that doll into a hand puppet to use in his shows. He hated Puppet-Richelieu a lot, but the shows that included it had been a surprising draw for the crowds. The people enjoyed seeing Puppet-Richelieu humiliated as much as Porthos did. Porthos had made a miniature Porthos-Puppet to use as well. To make Porthos-Puppet beat Puppet-Richelieu around with a stick had been oddly satisfying, because Porthos could not do it to Richelieu in person._

_Porthos always had to be cautious of patrols of soldiers, but he had been well rehearsed in escaping capture by that point, and although the soldiers must have heard about Porthos’ infamous shows, Porthos had never been caught performing them. He had grown too clever for that. It was what a childhood in the Court both gifted and cursed you with. He had fought for his survival, tooth and nail. That was what those shows had been about really; another way for Porthos to fight and bellow his anger to the world. Another way for Porthos to survive, and irritate Richelieu’s lot in the process._

_Every so often Porthos had looked out in to the crowds and had hoped to see Olivier standing among them watching and laughing. He had known that Olivier would have been one of the greatest fans of the Puppet-Richelieu shows, if he had ever seen them. It had been a few months since Porthos had seen Olivier with a lady on his arm, and Olivier had not noticed him. Porthos had not seen Olivier since._

_Porthos’ favourite show with Puppet-Richelieu was one that he had set up with his stall not far from the Note Dame Cathedral. He would sit out of the sight of the crowd, his arms stuck up so that the puppets danced about on the stage, and he would sing;_

_“Morning in Paris, the city awakes,_  
_to the bells of Notre Dame._  
_The fisherman fishes, the baker man bakes,_  
_to the bells of Notre Dame._  
_To the big bells as loud as the thunder,_  
_to the little bells soft as a psalm,_  
_and some say the soul of the city’s the toll of the bell._  
_The bells of Notre Dame._

 _But that soul has grown dim, the sound not so pure,_  
_from the bells of Notre Dame._  
_A man walks among them, a man who would ‘cure’_  
_the city and Notre Dame._  
_He thinks he is good, he thinks he is right,_  
_but try as might, he cannot dispel_  
_the bells of Notre Dame._  
  
_Because the bells sing a riddle for all us to hear,_  
_a song that a ‘good’ Judge happens to fear._  
_Here is a riddle, to guess if you can,_  
_sing the bells of Notre Dame._  
_What makes a monster and what makes a man?_  
_Sing the bells, bells, bells of Notre Dame._  
  
_Whatever the pitch, you can feel them bewitch you,_  
_the rich and the ritual bells._  
_Listen to the bells of Notre Dame.”_

_The song implied everything that Porthos wanted to shout to the world, without too abruptly accusing Richelieu of anything, but at the same time, Puppet-Richelieu was prancing around the little stage, being humiliated by Puppet-Porthos because whilst that entertained the children, the parents heard Porthos’ message loud and clear._

_Richelieu longed to purge the world from vice and sin, and that he saw corruption everywhere_ , _except within, where it mutated into the greatest and most dangerous of all. He accused gypsies of being monsters and not men, when he was more a monster than any of them._

_Porthos had been saying it for years._

_But that did not mean he liked being right about it._

*

Eventually, just as they had predicted, Richelieu came to them. They were alerted to it by the clanking of metal on the other side of the door and the scraping of the key being shoved in to the lock.

Almost immediately, d’Artagnan, Athos and Aramis sprang to their feet, not wanting to give Richelieu any satisfaction of looking vulnerable, curled up on the floor. Despite his fixed decisiveness earlier on his stand against Richelieu, d’Artagnan could not help but look in panic across the room to Athos.

“It’s alright, d’Artagnan.” Athos told him, voice quietly desperate, but firm nonetheless, like he was determined to keep d’Artagnan safe, despite being chained up several feet out of reach across the room. “You are going to be fine. It is going to be ok.”

Then the door opened, and Athos’ mouth audibly snapped shut, and d’Artagnan tensed, glancing to the side to see Judge Richelieu walk through the door.

He was smiling. It felt like the stone cell had dropped another ten degrees.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Richelieu told them, his eyes landed on d’Artagnan and d’Artagnan attempted to suppress the shudder that threatened to roll through him.

He was not however, so successful in hiding the flinch he made when Aramis snorted and said “If we were _gentlemen_ , Judge, we would not be here in the first place.”

“Quite true.” The Judge raised an eyebrow as his attention switched from d’Artagnan to Aramis, “You know my position on your sort, Aramis, following our conversation in the Notre Dame.”

“Ah yes,” Aramis continued idly, like Richelieu did not bother him, “I remember. It was just after I prayed to the Lord for your damnation, I recall.”

Aramis had clearly been waiting for Richelieu, because his words were as quick and cutting as they could be, planned to jibe and goad in exactly the right ways. d’Artagnan did not know whether he wanted Aramis to stop, or to get in his say whilst he still could, and so remained quiet in his confliction, wondering whether that was why Porthos and Athos were not joining in or distracting Richelieu from Aramis either.

Richelieu’s lip curled angrily, “The Lord would not listen to the selfish wants of a witch! And he would never damn a man he has set a most important mission.”

“I presume you mean this? That this is your mission?” Aramis spat, “To murder innocent people…”

“Please.” Richelieu snarled, “You and I both know that not a single person in these cells is innocent.”

“Oh I know.” Aramis’ voice was lilting acid, “You included.”

Richelieu stormed forwards at the same moment that Aramis lurched forwards in his chains, and an instant later their faces were only inches apart. Richelieu’s glare ice, matched to Aramis’ fiery defiance.

“I do the Lord’s work.” Richelieu said, his voice surely only a cold whisper across Aramis’ face, but the rest of them could still hear it, waiting with bated breath, unable to make any physical form of intervention and knowing that saying anything would not likely dissuade them, “But I would not expect a sinful heathen such as yourself to understand.”

“You say that God and the Angels have spoken to you.” Aramis said, his voice equally hard and venomous, “Telling you that this was your mission. But have you maybe ever just stopped to consider that it was not their voices telling you to do it. And that it was just _you_?”

The final word reverberated around the cell in its cold, abrupt honesty. Aramis had laid the entire question of Richelieu’s years of injustice bare. He had spoken what Porthos had been telling everyone for years.

Richelieu wrenched himself away and a second later Aramis had been backhanded across the face, the smack of skin terribly loud in the cell. Aramis must have bitten the inside of his cheek, because he spat blood on the floor with a nasty, red grin, “Did I hit a nerve, Judge?”

“Enough! Guards!”

d’Artagnan instinctually flew forwards against his bonds, terrified that they were going to take Aramis away and punish him. Athos and Porthos were shouting at them. But when the guards came in, Richelieu only spat, “Did I not tell you to gag the witch to stop him casting any spells for means of escape?”

They had all been stripped of any items on them when they had been arrested in the Court; weapons, coin, jewellery. And had included any powders or strange magic supplies Aramis had been carrying on him. Aramis was not going to be able to escape the cells by magic, even if he wanted to.

“That is not how it wo…” Aramis started to scoff, before cutting himself off abruptly.

“I’m sorry?” Richelieu asked, cupping a hand behind his ear as though he had not quite heard Aramis’ blunder, “Not how it works? Well, what more proof do I need that you would know exactly how it would work?”

A guard approached Aramis, only to have Aramis attempt to head-butt and kick him, unable to lash out with his arms bound behind his back.

“Get the _fuck_ off him!” Porthos snarled, but he went ignored by Richelieu and a second man who came to help the first. They were eventually able to wrestle Aramis immobile until they could tie a gag tightly around his head.

Richelieu was watching with disturbing amusement.

The moment Aramis had been silenced, capable now of only making angry, muffled noises through the material, Richelieu dismissed the guards again with a wave of his hand. “You see,” Richelieu was saying, “I know all about your witchery, René.”

Aramis’ eyes opened a little wider and d’Artagnan’s breath caught in his throat. He looked to Athos and Porthos, but their eyes were fixed firmly on Aramis, and once again, d’Artagnan was both frustrated at not being able to properly see their reaction, and glad that he could not.

“I know about your family, and what your grandmother taught you.” Richelieu said, stepping forwards and fixing a strong hand against Aramis’ neck, running a thumb back across Aramis’ cheek so hard that skin was pulled back with it, “I know about what you did to the girl. And I know that they were about to dunk you when she managed to save you from her father, clearly still under your spell.”

There was a loud clang as Athos lurched forward, but Richelieu only sneered when eventually Athos ran out of chain and was choked by it. Porthos was unable to move, but had ceased saying anything, presumably afraid to provoke Richelieu further whilst he had a hold of Aramis. Porthos' cold fury was crackling and almost noticeable in the air. 

Aramis struggled in Richelieu’s grip, but that just made Richelieu hold him even firmer, looking into Aramis’ eyes, and d’Artagnan was not close enough to see the look in Richelieu’s eyes. He did not want to. He needed Richelieu to let Aramis go, but his words were frozen in his throat, not wanting to spark Richelieu’s anger when he had Aramis’ neck in his hands.

“You clearly charmed her, attacking the mind with your unholy ways. You do that a lot, I hear, witch. Why, I even had to deal with Adele Bassett only a few days ago because she had fallen under your wicked spell.”

Aramis cried out with devastated rage and his fighting renewed.  
  
It was clear to everyone in the room just how Richelieu had 'dealt' with Adele Bassett.

Richelieu was smirking. “How else was I to free her from your curse?" He leant forward, "You know, she cried out your name even before she died.”

Aramis let out a shaken, devastated noise.

“You should have drowned.” Richelieu told him stonily. “The first time you bewitched a woman. You were about to drown for what you did to that girl…” Richelieu hissed. He was clearly going to say more, but d’Artagnan made a strangled noise, unable to stop himself. For some reason his traitorous mind supplied the image of Aramis not being saved so quickly, of Aramis, only fifteen or sixteen years old, choking from water as they dragged him up, giving him a moment to breath and hope before they dunked him down again. He would have been the same age as d’Artagnan had been when Richelieu had tried to drown _him_. d’Artagnan’s nightmares had been filled with black water filling his lungs, that loss of breath. And d’Artagnan stumbled back with the force of those fears.

Whilst he had not been paying attention, Richelieu’s attention had been reverted back to him by the noise he had made.

“Ah yes, young d’Artagnan knows all about waiting to drown, don’t you d’Artagnan?”

“Fuck you.” d’Artagnan choked out.

Richelieu laughed, “The boy has such _fire_.” He released and left Aramis, ignoring the protesting noises of Porthos and Athos as he approached d’Artagnan, and d’Artagnan stood stone still, hoping that his bravery would be stubborn enough to see this out.

Richelieu was watching him closely, eyes tracing his face and down to the skin revealed by d’Artagnan’s dirty shirt. “You know I think drowning would have been favourable to burning,” Richelieu whispered to him as though he were sharing a secret between them, “Wouldn’t you?”

“Leave the boy alone.” Porthos barked from across the cell, “And let him go. He is innocent in all of this.”

“Innocent? Again, so quick to throw that word around.” Richelieu dismissed, “I know that he is not innocent.” Richelieu’s eyes were still fixed on d’Artagnan’s face, and he lifted his hand, tracing d’Artagnan’s skin like he had in the Court, with a much gentler touch than that he had given to Aramis. d’Artagnan threw his hands up to stop him, but Richelieu’s other hand caught him in that unexpectedly strong grip. “And yet…” Richelieu trailed off. He took a step closer and d’Artagnan attempted to step back, but Richelieu held him forward by his hold on the cuffs. “And yet I think that you are right in that he is misled in his youth. I think that he could yet be saved.”

Richelieu leant forward, and buried his nose in d’Artagnan’s hair, taking in a deep breath. He then moved away again just as quickly, watching d’Artagnan closely, eyes roaming over his face, lingering on his mouth. The hand on d'Artagnan's face moved back to trace his ear. d'Artagnan's flesh raised in mortified goosebumps. “Once he is free of the three of you, his influencers and teachers of insanity and treachery, I could potentially work to save him. To bring him back in to the light.”

“If you are the light,” d’Artagnan said, burning with anger and fear, “I want to stay in the dark.”

Richelieu looked at him disapprovingly. Their bodies were practically pressed together, and Richelieu’s fingers were cold merciless clamps around his own. “I give you a choice, d’Artagnan; something for you to mull over before tomorrow.” d’Artagnan attempted to look away, but Richelieu held on to his chin, “Tomorrow I will give you the choice of choosing me as your redemption, or the fire as your refusal.”

d’Artagnan’s breath came out stuttered, and he knew Richelieu did not miss the shudder that wracked him, that he could feel it by how close they stood together. His eyes were still on Richelieu’s and he could see a spark of excitement in them as they held his eyes and then trailed his face. It made him feel sick. “You are going to burn me?” The thought was tearing him apart inside with the terror of it. The smell of Paris burning was still branded in his memory. He remembered how fast Henri’s windmill had gone up in flame. But instead of buildings and burning timber, it would be him on fire, and his flesh that was burning.

Richelieu opened his mouth to say something else, but Athos’ demanding voice interrupted, “How can he be ‘free’ of us if you intend to kill him first? See reason…”

“Oh,” Richelieu cut Athos off in turn. Richelieu seemed to decide his moment with d’Artagnan was broken, because he slackened his hold on him a little, which was obviously what Athos had been attempting to do. “He will not be alone. I cannot keep a witch in the cells for too long. It makes the guards nervous. As much as I would have liked to have held on to the witch a bit longer, to strip him more thoroughly of his sins.” Richelieu let d’Artagnan go abruptly and his eyes locked back on Aramis. Porthos made some kind of distraught noise, unable to keep it in.

d’Artagnan was once again assaulted with the image of his dream, of Aramis’ perfect skin burned and melted from him, charred bone and hair frazzled to non-existence. He had to swallow the bile that rushed up his throat.

“Though I must admit it will be rather a triumph to watch,” Richelieu was saying as he wandered back to Aramis again, “Seeing as you are unafraid to die.I have figured you out Aramis,and this it, isn't it? You carry the craftiness of the devil, and you are not afraid of death. That is why you carried on with your witchcraft after the troubles in your youth and came here. You made a career of dodging knives and swallowing swords and eating fire. You escaped death again at Savoy, but I am determined to ensure you do not escape it again. At the Festival I noted your enjoyment of fire and flame. I want to see how much you enjoy it tomorrow.”

At the blatant confirmation that Aramis would be burning the next day even if d’Artagnan was not, Athos snapped, and in another attempt to pull Richelieu’s attention, he said in a voice that was as twisted and furious as d’Artagnan had ever, ever heard it; “The fact that you take pleasure from this does not support your path of righteousness, you realise this?”

Richelieu gave a bark of a laugh, and finally was goaded enough to switch target. “You should not be the one to talk about righteous paths, Athos. Every decision you have made since your father’s passing has been the wrong one. Even in your choosing of a wife.” Richelieu marched up to Athos and pulled at the metal ring around his neck. “This collar is fitting is it not? I can imagine how many times Milady has wished this for you. To be bound around _your_ neck.” He stopped, pausing and considering Athos. Richelieu’s back was to d’Artagnan and he could not see Athos from behind the Judge, so he could not see the silent battle that was going on between them. “Which is why I am not going to burn you.” Richelieu said finally. “You are not a witch after all, why, you were not even born gypsy. There are other fates for traitors of your old station, Athos. I want to thank Milady for her help in finding you, whilst making an example to any other soldiers who are as fickle in their loyalties as you and Treville. That is why, after you watch your gypsy friends die tomorrow – the people you betrayed me for - I intend to gain information from you about your oh so precious Captain by every means necessary, and then have a public execution in a few days’ time, and you are going to dangle from a rope.” d’Artagnan watched Richelieu pull Athos closer and he would bet as much as Aramis had said earlier that Richelieu was smiling. Richelieu's hold on the collar had to have tightened, because Athos' breathing became loud and laboured. “It will be a shame to mar such noble skin,” Richelieu said, “but I think we can let that pass. I am sure Milady will enjoy watching you receive her intended fate. Though I am not sure Porthos will like it quite as much.”

d’Artagnan was so busy being terrified for Athos and his intended fate, and that Athos was going to have to watch them die before dying separately and alone, that it took a moment for Richelieu’s last statement to register. d’Artagnan was confused. Richelieu had just said that Athos was going to watch them all die, but then said that Porthos would not like Athos hanging by a rope?

Porthos was clearly confused as well, because he rose to the bait. “What are you talking about?”

“Why, what I have planned for you, Porthos.” Richelieu said, as though seeing Porthos there was a great delight to him. “Do not think that because I have had my focus on these three that I have forgotten about you. Quite the contrary. You are the one of all the Court that I am most pleased to have found.”

Richelieu moved, and the moment he did so d’Artagnan could see that he had left Athos visibly shaken as he gasped for air, but Athos’ eyes still tracked Richelieu with a deadly ferocity as the man stopped in front of Porthos.

“To me, Porthos,” Richelieu said, placing a hand on Porthos' chest. Porthos spat on him. Richelieu ignored it. “You are the living embodiment of the Court and of every one of your kind. To have you here, a King of the Court, finally at my mercy…oh, it is the most exquisite of victories.  I have known about you since you were a boy, and now you are a man and a leader. And now you are mine to do with as I wish. So, let me tell you of my plans for you…”

With a flurry of movement, Richelieu was no longer standing in front of Porthos. He was standing beside one of Porthos’ splayed-out arms, and was grasping his hand. Porthos, bound as he was, was unable to do anything about it. The others, bound as they were, were equally as useless. Richelieu held one of Porthos' fingers and tugged it backwards. The cracking sound made d’Artagnan stumble back, tripping over his chain, stomach burning with the need to vomit. Porthos attempted to muffle the sound of pain that threatened to burst from him, and was partially successful in gulping it down.

“Tomorrow, you are going to watch Aramis and d’Artagnan - if he chooses to - burn.” Richelieu continued as though nothing was amiss. “And then a few days later you are going to watch Athos hang. And then Treville.” He snapped another finger. Porthos remained stubborn, and did not make much of a noise, though the pain must have been agonising. “And I am going to break you down, and take you apart, and find what it is that the devil cares so much for you to have kept you away from justice all these years.” And he wrenched back another. “You are going to watch the other King and Queen of the Court die, and then all the rest.”

Richelieu then moved back in front of Porthos. Porthos’ head was dropped, chin on his chest, his breathing ragged and pained. Even in the dim room, d’Artagnan could see that Athos face had gone ghostly pale at the sight of Porthos’ pain, and Aramis was making insistent noises through his gag that were both ineffective and incomprehensible.

“And when you, Porthos,” Richelieu continued, chilling and pleased, “Are the last living gypsy in Paris, only then will you be sent to the fires of hell where you most belong, to meet your Court dwellers once again. Though, I may detach your head from your shoulders, to make your ability to rule again down in those pits impossible once you get there.” He lifted Porthos’ head in his hands and d’Artagnan wondered whether Porthos might spit at him again. The look on Porthos’ face was murderous. “What do you think? Porthos? Do you think that will be a fitting end to our twenty-year saga? I certainly do.”

He let go of Porthos face and moved towards the door. d’Artagnan prayed silently that he was finally, finally leaving. d’Artagnan’s throat felt clogged and it was struggle to swallow down tears.

“I am going to leave you all to beg for your forgiveness to which ever demons hold your council, though Aramis, I doubt they will be able to hear you.” Richelieu’s grey eyes fixed on d’Artagnan again, disturbing in their intensity. “d’Artagnan, I would highly recommend considering my offer. I may return later, and if not, well, I suppose I shall see you at my bonfire on the morrow.”

And with that, he left, the door clanging shut and the key scraping once again in the lock.

*

_Athos had met a lot of people in his lifetime. And those people were split into the three stages of his existence: Olivier d’Athos de la Fere, Athos the Soldier, and Athos the Gypsy._

_He had run away from one, become a runaway because of the next and run headfirst into the last._

_He remembered his time with Thomas, running about the garden playing ‘Court of Miracles’, then becoming an ally to the Court of Miracles,_ _and later joining the Court of Miracles._

_Only one person spanned all three of those existences. And that was Porthos. He remembered the day they met, and every day in between the day Porthos met him as a soldier, and then welcomed him in to the Court._

_He remembered the night that he finally joined the Court, and his first night with Porthos and Aramis. The taste of their kisses and the heat of their skin. He had learned much about them in the years to come; the sound of their laughter, the sound of their tears, Porthos’ good heart holding a dangerous hatred, and Aramis’ ability to be infuriating and charming in equal measure. Their dark eyes and blinding grins, both so different yet so staggeringly handsome, so different to Athos’ blue eyes and small smiles, but they loved him nonetheless._

_He remembered the first kiss he had shared with d’Artagnan. The younger man had been 18, and they had been breathless and exhilarated from being chased through the city. d’Artagnan had kissed him, and then hurried to apologise the moment the kiss had ended, wide-eyed and guilty. d’Artagnan had known about Athos, Porthos and Aramis. And more importantly, had wanted the three of them for some time. It did not take Athos and the other two long to convince d’Artagnan that they now felt the same of him. Aramis had made a comment about d’Artagnan’s devotion to Athos and_ of course _Athos would be the first one to get a kiss from d’Artagnan. It had made Athos secretly preen. d’Artagnan was bold, and energetic, brave and_ _dark and handsome. He stood up to them all. He stood up for them all. He became one of them in the blink of an eye. And it had, for the millionth time, struck Athos how lucky he was to have found love after Anne._

_Because try as he might, he could not forget Anne, either. Forget-me-nots with blue petals. Ribbons in brunette curls. A glint in her eye and a mischievous smile. A whirlwind of beauty and daring. She spoke her mind. She was a match for Olivier. Too great a match for Thomas, as it turned out._

_He remembered meeting Treville when he became a soldier. The respect he had for him, and as he quickly found out, the same secret allegiances._

_But that, of course, was also how he had met Judge Armand Richelieu. And he would never, ever, forget that first meeting. Because even from the first, Athos knew that the man was wrong. Athos had heard about Richelieu as he was growing up, but meeting the man in person cast a whole new shade on to the man._

_“But you are of noble birth,” Richelieu had said to him, not long after their introductions had been made. “So you will well understand the plight I am attempting to halt here, Athos.”_

_“I am aware of it.” Athos had said. He knew of it. But he would never come to_ understand _Richelieu’s ‘mission’, because it was from the sense of a madman._

_“You will help me control their numbers. And if possible, we will deplete them. There is an infestation in this city, Athos, and we are going to control it, stop it, and finish it. They crawl from their hiding places and scurry away again when they have committed their crimes.”_

_“You speak of them as though they are creatures, Sir.”  Like they were not human._

_Richelieu had looked at him in surprise, those grey eyes watching him closely, “But of course.” Richelieu had said, “That is precisely what they are. They are creatures. Creatures of sin. Creatures of vice.” He looked away thoughtfully, before snapping his fingers, “Monsters, even.” He had decided. “That is what they are. Monsters that need to be stopped.”_

_Athos had been at a loss for words. So he had just nodded._

_Porthos and his people were not monsters. They were men. Women. Children._ _Humans. Humans with human mistakes and faults, committing human crimes to survive. And who could blame them? They were fighting against_ this _. There were no such things as monsters. But Richelieu, Athos had decided right there and then, was probably as close as anyone could get._

*

Richelieu rushed in to his rooms, slamming the door behind him. He leant against it, his breath coming quickly and his heart racing from a whole mix of emotions; thrill, anger, triumph and…something else.

Those four men knew how to try his patience more than any other. They hit every nerve and prodded and poked at him until they sparked a fire. He could still feel the bones in Porthos’ fingers snapping under his own.

He did not understand their devotion to each other, their possessive loyalty. The only answer that Richelieu could summon was that the three mentors had united in their cause to craft and tutor d’Artagnan into the weapon against Richelieu that he was today. But then, of course, the four of them could always be…Richelieu shook his head. No, that was surely not possible.

He would not deny that through their heathen wiles they had successfully seduced him. All four of them. His dreams were still plagued by them. But that was the issue. This was his main test:

He had them now. He could drag them up here and do whatever he wanted to, to each of them. But that was where he met a conflicted dilemma. This was where the test lay. He was carrying out a mission from the higher powers against these demons. To risk his vow of celibacy by giving in and acting on any of his dark fantasies would be to go directly against all that he had fought for over the years. That was why he had to keep himself from going back to them, or have them brought to him. He could not act on his fantasies.

Besides, he was determined that these dreams had been caused by some curse of the witch in the knowledge that it would falter him in his purpose.

That was why Aramis was dying tomorrow. So he would hopefully be freed from the dreams.

That was why Athos and Porthos were going to follow. He needed to get rid of his temptations and not act upon them. Breaking Porthos would be indulgence enough.

Though, d’Artagnan, if he so chose to... he could be saved. He could be Richelieu’s, because Richelieu was deserving of at least one reward for his loyalties to the cause.

*

The moment Richelieu left the cell; it was immersed in momentary silence again, filled only with Porthos’ pained, ragged breaths. Aramis chewed at the gag in his mouth, attempting to dislodge it, but with his hands bound behind his back and the gag bound as tight as it was, he knew it was unlikely he would be able to talk again tonight. And now he knew for certain that this night would be his last. He would be spending his last night literally speechless, with his lovers chained and despairing around him, all facing equally, if not worse, fates than him. Damn, but Aramis could think of a million better last-nights on Earth than this.

And tomorrow, he would be consumed by flames. An ironic death for a fire-eater. And one of the nastiest ways to go that he could possibly imagine. He tried to ignore the panicked fear coiling in his belly like a serpent; he tried to suppress it for now. He could be scared in the morning, when he was tied to the stake. Breaking down now in front of his lovers would not do. He owed them more than that. He was more worried about them. Porthos was wheezing in pain, from the stab wound in his shoulder and the new breaks in his hand, but also from his heart aching, Aramis suspected. He desperately wanted to see how Porthos was doing, how all of them were doing. He just wanted to talk to them. But he could not. 

Luckily, Athos beat him to it. “Porthos,” he started worriedly, “Are you…”

“If you’re about to ask if I’m ok…” Porthos ground out, looking up at Athos grimly, “I’m definitely going to say that I’m not.”

“I'm sorry, Porthos.” Athos sounded and looked so sincere and sorrowful that Aramis almost had to avert his eyes from him. “What he plans to do to you…I can’t…” Athos did not seem physically capable of carrying on. His words failed him and Aramis could see his eyes turn glassy in the little light the cell held. It was not like Athos to lose his composure like that. That fact in itself was enough to strike another bout of distress into Aramis.

Porthos grunted. He did not need to use words for Aramis to read that he was also attempting to quash his fears for his own fate. “My life does not have an expiry date as of yet. So I’m the last person you need to be worrying about.”

“But you will have to watch.” d’Artagnan’s voice was small and aggrieved. “I think that would be worse.”

Aramis’ gaze snapped to d’Artagnan. He knew what that meant. Before Richelieu’s appearance in the cell, d’Artagnan had said that the Judge might not give him a choice of his fate, but he had. And d’Artagnan’s mind was clearly made up about what path he was going to decide. He was not going to watch Aramis and Athos and Porthos die, and be under Richelieu’s thumb. He was joining Aramis on the stake.

Aramis knew that choosing to be Richelieu’s would be the worst fate for d’Artagnan, but still the thought of that young life being extinguished by fire was too horrible to imagine, and it did not help him stop thinking about his own flesh boiling and melting and the heat scorching and burning.

“You have made your decision then.” Athos’ voice was leaden. Not void of emotion, just utterly worn and defeated from caring too much. Aramis looked at the collar tight around Athos’ neck and saw it tightening, Athos dangling; feet twitching as he struggled for life and lost…Aramis had to close his eyes to try and halt his own imagination. He did not blame d’Artagnan for not wanting to watch.

“I’m sorry.” d’Artagnan begged, “I am sorry for taking a cowardly way out, but I cannot watch you hang, Athos.” Tears were flowing down d’Artagnan’s cheeks freely. He had always been the most open with his feelings. It hurt Aramis and the first tears finally fell from his eyes. Porthos had been teary for some time now, tears rolling silently down dirty cheeks, and Athos, well Athos found it the hardest to express his feelings, but the look on his face and the sheen in his eyes were making this whole thing a hundred times harder to cope with. “I love you.” d’Artagnan choked out, voice wobbling precariously, “And I cannot watch Porthos be broken under that bastard’s hands, I can’t watch him do that to you, Porthos. And I can’t let Aramis die on his own tomorrow. I can’t watch him…”

Aramis pressed himself back against the cold of the wall, needing to ground himself. d’Artagnan was going to say _burn_ and Aramis had to swallow down bile that was rising in his throat, because he was gagged, and there was little else he was able to do about it.

“Oh god, Aramis.” Porthos suddenly said, brokenly, and Aramis suddenly found all three pairs of eyes on him. If Porthos had to watch each of them die in front of his eyes, he would be broken before Richelieu could ever lay another hand on him.

Aramis attempted to speak, to talk some sense into them all. He would rather spend the rest of their time together speaking of the good times they had shared rather than the terrible fates that awaited them. But all that came through the gag were garbled, muffled noises. Aramis kicked out at his chain angrily, clanking it against the wall behind him.

Luckily, the four of them were so adept at reading each other by that point that he did not really need words to get his message across.

“You’re right.” Porthos sniffed, “Sorry, Aramis. We’ll, we’ll talk about something else.”

“If it is any consolation to your predicament Aramis,” Athos said immediately, and Aramis thanked god for Athos’ inside-out knowledge of Aramis’ sense of humour and the banter that accompanied it. “I do miss that incessant voice of yours.”

Aramis rolled his eyes, even as another tear escaped. It went unspoken that Athos meant both at the present time and that he would miss it after tomorrow, when it was gone for good.

“I’m sorry you are gagged too, Aramis.” d’Artagnan agreed, his smile watery, “We could do with a ridiculous story right now.”

“Remember that one he told us about the fish and the maiden?”

“Utterly ridiculous.”

Aramis glared half-heartedly at them all _. La Jeune Femme et le Petit Poisson_ was one of his best. True, the first time he had told it they had been stuck hiding from armoured soldiers in a horrid little muddy furrow by the edge of the Seine and they needed to be quiet, and his decision to start up telling a story had not gone down so well. But he had thought his mastery of the narration superior to most tales that had come before. The argument that followed it had kept them all entertained enough to wait out the dismal, bone-chilling damp of their hiding place for the two hours that they hid there.

And once again, one of Aramis’ most insane stories saved Aramis from insanity himself.

They fell into reminiscent tales of their many years together, and there was plenty to remember. And if those fond memories were tarnished slightly in their retelling - by Porthos straining and paining with his injuries that would only be exacerbated in the days to come, d’Artagnan’s jitteriness that betrayed that he was still afraid, or Athos’ hand ghosting over the constricting metal about his neck, losing himself every so often in memories and Richelieu’s plans for him - none of them mentioned it. Aramis, unable to vocally join in, listened instead, ignoring the throbbing of his heart, wishing he could add to the stories. To show as much as the other three how much he loved them. He would not get another chance, after all. The fear inside him was joined by a crippling sadness at the thought of not being able to tell the men he had loved unconditionally for over five years how he felt for them. To remind them one last time. To beg them to remember him as he was, not what he would become tomorrow.

Finally, he got the closest chance he was going to get. The morning light began to filter into the cell from the slit of a window in the wall Athos was chained to. The other three had talked themselves hoarse through the night, and as the silence threatened to descend again, so did the realities of what that sunrise brought with it. Aramis dreaded that sunken terror entering the three of them again, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But, he was surprised when Porthos raised his heavy head, his skin sweaty and fevered-looking from bearing the pain he was in, and looked each of them in the eye and said, “God, I love you. All of you.”

“And so do I.” Athos said, the morning light reflecting off his light blue eyes. There were tear tracks down his cheeks. “I love you all more than anything else in this world.” More than what he’d had in his previous 'lives'. More than his wife. Aramis knew how much Athos loved them, even if he was the one to say it the least, it just meant all the more when he did.

d’Artagnan stood from where he had settled on the floor. His eyes had dark rings underneath them that gave him a haunted look, but he was firm when he said, “You know how I feel. I have adored you all since I was fifteen, and I have loved you since you let me into what the three of you had. And it was beautiful. Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”

Porthos shook his head, “Wouldn’t have been right without you, d’Art.”

d’Artagnan was smiling, but he looked so distraught that Aramis decided it was his turn. So he clanged his cuffed hands against the wall behind him. Once he had gotten their attention he was at a loss for what to do. He could not speak and he could not motion with his hands, bound as they were behind his back. He growled in frustration, before looking at each of them in turn, taking his time, taking them in and seeing each of them do it for him in return, before giving them a small nod. They knew what he meant.

“We know, Aramis.” Athos surprised him by being the one to speak to him first, his voice soft. “We love you too.”

Aramis would have smiled properly, if not for the stupid gag. He would save it for when he next could. Even if it was when he was tied to the stake. He would save that smile. Even if it was in the next life, and he had to keep it for when he saw Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan again on the other side. He would save it.

Richelieu could take their lives from them. But Aramis would be damned before anyone would ever take their love.

*

_d’Artagnan had been sixteen when he had run in to the Court, fighting angry tears. Aramis had found him in the catacombs, kicking the bones of a skeleton to dust._

_“What’s wrong with you, whelp?” Aramis had asked._

_Aramis had only been about 23 at that point himself, but for some reason had taken to calling d’Artagnan ‘whelp’, as though he was significantly older, because it had amused him. It would be another few years before ‘whelp’ changed to ‘star’._

_“Some kids kept calling me a monster.” d’Artagnan had bitten out angrily. “They said Judge Richelieu said that we are all not human. That we should not be treated like them because we are evil.”_

_Aramis had shaken his head. “Now, isn’t that the most ridiculous of things?” He had moved in front of him and held d’Artagnan’s shoulder, ducking his head to meet his eyes (d’Artagnan had still been smaller than him at that point). “Are you a monster, d’Artagnan?”_

_d’Artagnan had looked at the smashed skeleton at his feet, “Maybe.” He could not help but whisper. Why else would they be avoided by people in the street? Why else would they be so condemned? What had their people done to make others hate them so? Surely there had to be something. Sometimes he felt like all this anger, all the crime they committed to survive, maybe they were deserving of it._

_“Well I will let you in on a little secret. You are wrong. Sit.”_

_d’Artagnan had done as he was told, finding a dry bit of stone and sitting down on it. Aramis had sat opposite him, legs crossed. Aramis had held out his hand, “Give me your hand.”_

_d’Artagnan had held it out cautiously. He had not yet been in the Court for a year, and Aramis, Athos and Porthos had been nothing but mentors and brotherly figures to him, but that had not stopped him liking them in ways that ran deeper than that. It meant that when Aramis had taken his hand, turned his palm upwards and begun tracing a finger along his skin, that d’Artagnan had shuddered with more than just the ticklish feeling._

_Aramis had not noticed, eyes intent on the path of his finger. “Now,” Aramis had said, “You see this line here?” He had pointed at a line on d’Artagnan’s palm._

_d’Artagnan had nodded._

_“That means that you are brave.” Aramis told him._

_d’Artagnan had looked up at him in surprise, and Aramis’ dark eyes were looking fondly back, his young, devastatingly handsome face was as serious as d’Artagnan had ever seen it. Aramis had gone back to looking at his hand._

_“And hmm, a long lifeline. That is always good to have, you know.”_

_It went unspoken that a long lifeline was not often something gypsies possessed in Paris._

_d’Artagnan had met palm readers in the Court before, but he had not given them much thought. He had not known that Aramis could do it, but then, he had not been all that surprised that he could._

_“A long love-life too. Ooh, you lucky thing.” Aramis had winked at him and d’Artagnan had blushed. “But what is this?” He had held up d’Artagnan’s palm to his face, making a great dramatic display of studying it. d’Artagnan had known that Aramis was doing most of this for show, but it had made d’Artagnan feel better, which was clearly the intention. “Hmm.” Aramis had hummed, “Hmm, mmm mmm. Well, that’s funny.”_

_“What?” d’Artagnan had asked, wanting to pull his hand back and look for himself but Aramis had held firm._

_“I don’t see any.”_

_“Any what?” d’Artagnan had asked in confusion._

_“Monster lines.” Aramis said. “Not a single one.”_

_There was no such thing as monster lines. d’Artagnan had known that even back then. But when Aramis had held out his own hand and said, “Now look at me, do you think I have monster lines? That I am evil?” d’Artagnan had immediately started to argue._

_“No, of course not!” d’Artagnan had reached out and had clasped Aramis’ hand in his own rather than bothering to look at them. He had not been able to read a palm, but knew what would not be there. “You are kind and good and…”_

_“And a gypsy. Just like you.” Aramis had said softly, finding d’Artagnan’s eyes again. “And maybe Richelieu is wrong about the both of us.”_

* * *

 

**18 January 1482**

 

 

d’Artagnan’s heart was pounding in his chest to the beat of the executioner’s drums.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

It was enough to make him miss the dripping grate in the cells.

He and Aramis had been dragged from the cell a few hours before, hearing Athos and Porthos shouting behind them. He had been so afraid that that was the last time he was going to see them. But they had been informed by a sneering guard as they had fought in the grips they were held by, that Athos, Porthos and all the most important of the folk caught in the Court of Miracles would be brought out in chains to watch the execution. d’Artagnan still did not know whether he would have rather had Porthos and Athos left in the cells. So they didn’t have to see. They shouldn’t have to watch this. They had said their goodbyes, or danced around the outskirts of goodbyes, unable to actually voice them, but it had been close enough. But a selfish part of him wanted to see their faces one more time, and knew that he would draw strength from them being there.

He and Aramis stood side by side now, dressed in thin, clean white shirts and short pants, and bare feet. They were tied by rough, prickling ropes around their wrists, and flanked by too many guards to escape, or say anything of meaning to each other.

When they had been taken from the cells, they had been washed and cleaned, and then their faces had been shaved. Thankfully their loss of dignity had not been stretched to cutting their hair, it had merely been washed. d’Artagnan had not had too much facial hair to lose, but the change of Aramis had been startling.

For as long as d’Artagnan could remember, Aramis had always been bearded and moustached. Even when d’Artagnan had joined the Court and Aramis had been in his early twenties, there had been thick stubble there. And Aramis’ eyes were almost always darkened and lined with kohl. Now, his face was clean and clear, his eyes surrounded by nought but skin, and his chin, jaw and upper-lip smooth. It made him look impossibly young.

d’Artagnan knew he kept staring at Aramis, but he could not help himself. Aramis had caught his eye a couple of times. The first time he had still been furious, rubbing at his hairless jawline with a bound wrist, but after the anger had worn, he had managed a wink. His smile looked different without the beard and the moustache there, but no less beautiful.

The smile wasn’t there now, though. And Aramis’ transformed, youthful face was sombre, his eyes fixed at the door that would lead them out into the crowded square outside the Notre Dame, where they had been on stage at the Festival less than two weeks before, but for entirely different reasons.

The drums were thudding outside. It was nearly time for them to die. The beats seemed to be counting down for them.

“Aramis…” d’Artagnan said, voice hushed, knowing that the silent guards around them would hear, but not bringing himself to care. Aramis glanced at him. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Aramis’ lips. “And I’m glad you’re with me, whelp.”

d’Artagnan faltered. Aramis had not called d’Artagnan whelp for years. He always called him…

“You’ll join the stars.” Aramis said, and d’Artagnan breathed a silent sigh of relief. Aramis was just not calling him it in front of the guards, just in case. “You belong up there.”

“And you?” d’Artagnan wanted Aramis to stay with him, now and wherever they went after. d’Artagnan had never really given it much thought (even after his father had died. Imagining had been too painful) until the last couple of days - what happened to you after death - but Aramis was religious, he probably knew where he was going, or where he wanted to be.

“I like fire.” Aramis shrugged, “I will hang around the sun, I think.” He nudged d’Artagnan, “So I’m in the same place as you.”

“Shut it.” One of the guards finally snapped. “You’ll see how you really like fire soon enough.”

“It is quite a chilly day. And it was bloody freezing in those cells.” Aramis snarked. “I am looking forward to a bit of warmth.”

“Enough.” Another guard shouted from in front of them. “It’s time.”

“Thank the lord for that.” Aramis said. d’Artagnan was unsure how Aramis was still able to talk. d’Artagnan’s words were failing him along with his thundering heart. Though Aramis had been using every opportunity to talk since he had had the gag removed. “Your company was beginning to bore me, gentlemen.”

“Enough!” The guard ordered again, “Richelieu wants the gag back on him.”

Aramis snarled when they forced it back into his mouth.

And then the drumming was the only thing making noise again, until the front guard swung the door open, and d’Artagnan blinked in the bright light of the sun, taking in the noise and size of the crowd that had gathered in the square. There were people everywhere. They were shouting, but he could not tell whether it was at them or for them.

He and Aramis were manhandled forwards, and hard grips kept on them as they were guided through the crowds. Soldiers were keeping the crowds parted so that there was a path through the people. d’Artagnan did not dare look up in to any of the faces. He was afraid they were here to watch him die, not here to support them in their plight. He did not think he would be able to stomach the hate in their eyes, not when he had seen such wonder in them before, at the Festivals and when they performed on the streets.

When they drew closer to the Notre Dame, however, d’Artagnan could not help but glance up. He saw a large wooden stage had been erected in the middle of the square. He could see a single stake sticking up out of it from a stack of tinder and hay. Richelieu was standing on the stage watching them, with that same cold, unaffected stare d’Artagnan was now accustomed to. All the emotions Richelieu had shown in the cell the night before had been most out of character for him, and had been unnerving. But now there was no emotion there at all. Hopefully for the best.

d’Artagnan looked away from the Judge almost instantly, his eyes seeking out the faces of the people he knew. There were six barred cage-like carriages standing in a line to one side of the stage. In one was Captain Treville. In the next was a group of Court-dwellers, among them Flea and Charon. The next two were stuffed with more Court-dwellers, including young Jacques and Old Serge and Elaine and Vadim. The next held Milady and Constance. Milady was watching them with an unreadable expression. d’Artagnan’s heart hurt when his eyes fell on Constance. She looked tired and unkempt, her hair askew and wild, her eyes wilder, as she clung to the bars with whitened fingers, watching d’Artagnan and Aramis. Beside their cage, but free of capture, Jacques Bonacieux was standing, arguing with the nearest soldier, presumably for Constance's release. d'Artagnan felt a renewed respect for the man. And then, in the last cage, was Porthos and Athos. Porthos looked ill. Physically drained and injured. He was cradling his hands, one with the crooked, broken fingers, to his chest. It looked like Athos had apparently attempted to splint and wrap up the broken fingers with part of his shirt, but had done a messy job, because both of their hands were bound by rope. Athos was ghostly pale, eyes flickering over Aramis and d’Artagnan like he was trying to will himself to settle on them.

They reached the stage, and were shoved up the steps. Aramis grumbled something through his gag but d’Artagnan did not know what he said.

The next thing he knew, d’Artagnan had taken his last proper look at Aramis, because he was swung around and pressed back against the stake, back-to-back with Aramis, who was being jostled to the other side. Their wrists were bound together, so that they made a circle around the stake. d’Artagnan could no longer see the line of cages of his friends and loved ones, because Aramis was facing them. He was both saddened and glad by that. He looked down at the tinder beneath his bare feet instead. It hurt them, standing on it. But he knew they would be inflicted by a much more painful hurt before too long.

Suddenly, dark shoes appeared in his line of vision and he looked up to find the Judge Richelieu staring down at him, barely refraining to hide his smugness. d’Artagnan forced his eyes away and looked pointedly at something other than Richelieu, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Richelieu clearly grew bored and moved to the other side. It was only until he heard Aramis say, just loud enough for the three of them to hear “Are you sure that is a good idea, Judge? I may cast a spell on you.” That Richelieu had taken the gag off him again.

Richelieu tutted patronisingly and d’Artagnan felt Aramis’ hands clench against d’Artagnan’s own, betraying his calm demeanour. “You told me yourself that it does not work that way, witch. Besides,” The way Aramis moved behind him, like he was pressing back against the stake, suggested that Richelieu had leant toward his face, “I want to hear you scream for mercy.”

“Ha!” Aramis snapped, “You will not get that. This may be the day that I die, but I am going to scream your sins to the world before I go.”

“Speak a word against me, boy.” Richelieu snarled, “And I will cut you free and force you to watch d’Artagnan burn in your stead. Understand me?”

Aramis did not say anything, but that was answer enough that Richelieu’s threat had been taken at face value.

Richelieu moved back into d’Artagnan’s periphery, but his back was to him, and Richelieu was looking out at the crowd that filled the square. The drums raced in their pace, before dying out suddenly. Silence descended over the square.

“The prisoners Charles d’Artagnan and René d’Herblay have been found guilty of the crime of witchcraft and associated crimes.” Richelieu announced over the crowd. “The sentence for these crimes is death.”

d’Artagnan subtly moved his fingers, linking them with Aramis’. Aramis held them back tightly, a thumb brushing comfortingly down d’Artagnan’s hand.

Richelieu turned back to d’Artagnan abruptly, standing close to his face when he whispered, “The time has come, gypsy.” He was staring at d’Artagnan with such intensity, and d’Artagnan realised that Richelieu was _still_ going to offer him a way out, even after everything. “You stand upon the brink of the abyss. Yet even now it is not too late. I can release you from the clutches of the heathens that have sought to turn you into a weapon to smite me.” Aramis’ fingers tightened around his own. “I can save you from the flames of this world and the next.” Richelieu’s breath was warm on his face, and even through the smug assurance of his words - like he thought that d’Artagnan would be so afraid to die that he would accept his offer - there was also something in his gaze that was imploring d’Artagnan to choose him. “Choose me, or the fire.”

d’Artagnan spat on his face.

Richelieu jerked back, not bothering to wipe the saliva away. His eyes grew cold in hatred, and…disappointment? d’Artagnan had never understood what was going on in the madman’s head.

“I take that as your decision made.” Richelieu said, “And you have made a grave mistake.” He then turned and addressed the crowds again, voice hard and clear in their purpose; “The gypsies Charles d’Artagnan and René d’Herblay have refused to recant.” He pointed at them, “These evil witches have put the souls of every citizen in Paris in awful jeopardy.” He crossed the stage without further ado, taking a burning torch from the soldier waiting at the steps, and d’Artagnan remembered how Richelieu had snatched away an identical torch the night he had burned down Henri’s mill. d’Artagnan had a morbid thought, that he and Aramis would not burn as quickly as the mill had.

“For justice, for Paris, and for their own salvations,” Richelieu yelled out as he walked towards them, coming to a halt beside them, “It is my sacred duty to send these unholy demons back where they belong.” He lowered the flame to the bottom of the pile of tinder under their feet.

People were screaming. People were shouting. The tinder caught.

Aramis’ hands were vice-like in d’Artagnan’s own.

Just like Aramis had promised, he did not yell out about Richelieu’s injustice. All Aramis did was talk frantically to d’Artagnan. “d’Artagnan,” He said urgently, just loud enough for d’Artagnan to hear over the screams of the crowd, which meant Richelieu probably could hear Aramis too, but d’Artagnan did not care. “d’Artagnan listen to me.”

“I’m listening.” d’Artagnan stuttered out. The tinder was smoking, rising up into his face. He coughed.

And Aramis started to sing one of his Spanish lullabies. One that he translated to d’Artagnan once, telling him how it spoke of love and protection of loved ones against the horrors of the world. Aramis sang it, and when the flames began to crackle and eat away at the tinder, Aramis’ voice hitched up a pitch, betraying his terror. d’Artagnan’s feet were starting to be scorched by the heat and he shuffled, trying to keep them off the tinder for as long as he could.

Richelieu was watching them both with a sick satisfaction.

The crowd was a roaring blur in the background. d’Artagnan thought of Porthos and Athos, of how powerless they must be feeling. But he could not see them. He switched off from the crowd. He focused on Aramis’ voice, and the words that Aramis was now forcing out in stilted fragments rather than singing, as the flames finally began to take hold of the tinder beneath their feet, and Aramis was choking on smoke.

d’Artagnan’s throat was thick with it, the grey cloying smoke of burning wood. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

His throat was burning. His eyes were watering. His skin was close to burning. He could feel the pain of flames begin to lick at his feet.

He had a moment to register that Aramis’ song had descended into the fast, frantic, high pitched flurry of a Latin prayer, before d'Artagnan blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit in this chapter goes to Stephen Schwartz for the lyrics for 'The Bells of Notre Dame', which were partially used for Porthos' flashback song (though I added a verse or two) and for the script writers, because I borrowed a couple of excellent lines that were too good to change.


	10. Chapter 10

It was agonising. Seeing Aramis tied to the stake and staring back at them as Richelieu moved away from taking the gag from his mouth.

Athos could read Aramis’ expression. He knew he was trying to express that he loved them, that he was sorry that they were being forced to watch. Aramis looked so young, so different. They had shaved and cleaned his face, so there was no more beard, or kohl on his eyes. He looked so vulnerable and de-aged like that. But just as beautiful. Achingly beautiful.

Athos could see that under their bound wrists, Aramis’ fingers were linked with d’Artagnan’s. Only if you were looking for it you would notice. Athos subconsciously reached out with his bound hands and hooked his little finger around the one on Porthos’ good hand. Porthos was quiet, burning in his grief and fury, which would destroy him long before any physical torture of Richelieu’s would. But Porthos’ finger squeezed his back. Athos wanted to say a hundred different words of comfort, but his tongue was thick in his mouth and he did not know how he could make any comfort convincing even to his own ears. But Porthos moving a step closer to him showed that Porthos understood, and was at an equal loss.

Aramis smiled at them briefly when he saw their hands join, but then he got distracted by whatever Richelieu was saying to d’Artagnan.

Athos and Porthos managed to see, even from this awkward angle, that d’Artagnan spat at Richelieu, presumably giving Richelieu a final answer to the ultimatum Richelieu had given him. Porthos let out a dry, short laugh in pride. It quickly died however, as Richelieu began his final announcement;

“The gypsies Charles d’Artagnan and René d’Herblay have refused to recant. These evil witches have put the souls of every citizen in Paris in awful jeopardy…” Richelieu moved across the stage towards the soldier with the burning torch.

“Athos.” A voice snapped at him, hushed but determined.

Athos recognised the voice immediately. It was Milady, locked in the cage next to theirs. He ignored her.

“Athos!” She said again, with more urgency.

Athos dragged his eyes from Aramis’ face and glared at her. It was not her fault that Richelieu had found the Court. They all knew that. He did not blame her in the slightest and honestly believed that she had been trying to help. But right now, he needed to be there for Aramis and d’Artagnan, in any way that he could.

But then, his traitorous mind reminded him, he had not been able to give her the same courtesy. It was his sudden guilt that made him look at her properly.

When he did, he realised that Constance was standing close to Milady’s side, watching him too, closely. “Listen to her.” Constance said. And if Athos had doubted Milady’s intentions before, he certainly did not now.

“What?” He asked.

Something moved in Milady’s hand and Athos looked down to see that her wrists were no longer bound, and neither was Constance’s, and Milady was holding something in her hand. Athos looked down at the soldiers around them, but they were all enraptured by the display on stage, where Richelieu was announcing; “For justice, for Paris, and for their own salvations…”

Porthos had noticed what was going on as well, as he moved closer to Athos to hiss “What…”

Milady silenced him by saying, “When the pyre starts to burn, the crowd will be in commotion. When they do, look for Jacques Bonacieux.”

“What?” Athos repeated again.

Jacques Bonacieux had turned up the moment that the caged carriages had been dragged out into the square an hour ago. He had only just discovered where Constance had gone, having spent most of the night fearing she had been kidnapped or murdered. For all that he was a dull and strict man, Bonacieux had shown some strong worth as a husband in fighting for his wife’s freedom. He had demanded a moment alone with Constance, as a respected businessman of Paris, and the moment they had been parted again, he had stayed close by, arguing her case as an innocent - caught up in something she had been completely unaware of.

“Just trust me.” Milady ordered.

Athos was just about to take a moment to debate whether he _could_ trust her, when the screaming started in the crowd. Their heads whipped round to stare at the pyre. Richelieu had set the tinder on fire.

“Fuck.” The word was punched out of Porthos as they both flew forward in unison to the front of the cell.

If they hadn’t have run forward, Athos was sure the only other way they would have gone was backwards, as far away from their waking nightmare as possible. But Aramis and d’Artagnan needed them, and it was impossible not to look for them, to try and give them some strength.

Aramis’ eyes were fixed on them, and his mouth was moving. He was talking to d’Artagnan, Athos assumed, but the crowd was so loud that Athos could not hear what Aramis was saying. He could see him though. See his eyes widen in terror, and break from them as he looked down at the smoke and beginnings of the smouldering red at their feet. They could not see d’Artagnan, but they could see the tight grip Aramis and d’Artagnan still had on each other’s hands.

“Aramis, d’Art, Aramis, d’Art…” Porthos was muttering the endless mantra under his breath.

The crowd around them was in chaos, just as Milady had said they would be. They were pushing forwards against the soldiers holding them back, shouting and fighting and rushing around. The soldiers around the caged carriages were distracted in attempting to stop the people that were behind the carriages from surging forwards and between them in the disorder.

Suddenly, Jacques Bonacieux’s face appeared at the side of their cage. “Here.” He simply said, sticking his hand between the bars and holding out a key on his open palm.

Athos did not ask where or how Bonacieux had gotten the key. But he suspected Milady. When he looked up he found that Milady was poised, staring at him, the door to her cage slightly ajar where she was holding it, waiting for him before they made a move. Athos wasted no time. He grabbed the key from Bonacieux, who immediately disappeared into the crowd, and Athos stuck his hand through the bars to push the key in the lock. He turned it and looked to Porthos. “You ready?”

Porthos nodded quickly. “We get to Aramis and d’Artagnan. No matter what.”

Athos nodded back and flung the door open. Porthos was out into the crowd and past the soldiers like a shot. Athos took a moment to throw the key to Milady, who had pulled Constance out of their own cage. “Get Treville and the others.” He told her. “And thanks.”

Milady gave him a lightning fast smile. “Go.” She demanded.

Athos did not need telling twice.

He raced through the crowds, dodging people as he ran, even with his bound hands. The soldiers around the cages had realised what was going on, because some of them rushed to pursue him. As he reached the stage he could see that Aramis had seen there was some kind of rebellion going on, because he was screeching through his choking, “Someone get d’Artagnan! Get d’Artagnan!”

Athos found Porthos on the steps to the stage, fighting the soldier that stood there. Even with his bound hands, Porthos easily knocked the man aside.

Someone from the crowd, hooded and cloaked, stepped forward and cut Athos’ rope-bound hands with a knife. Athos looked at the man in surprise, and only had a chance to register it was Phillip, the man they had saved at the Festival, before Phillip pressed the knife into his hand and then he was gone.

Richelieu was shouting commands above on the stage and Athos wasted no time in reaching Porthos. He cut Porthos’ hands free without a word and they charged up on stage.

Richelieu approached them, eyes red with fury and reflected flame, and Athos grabbed on to him, flinging him sideways with all his might, and watching with some satisfaction as the man stumbled and fell off the edge of the stage. He had no time to kill him, not with Aramis and d’Artagnan to worry about. Hopefully the crowds would do it for him.

“Get d’Artagnan.” Porthos shouted at him, fighting more oncoming soldiers off the stage.

Athos ran to d’Artagnan. The flames were licking at their legs by that point, and had thankfully not seemed to take proper hold of clothing or flesh, but still Athos did not dare look at the state of their feet. d’Artagnan was unconscious, his head lolling forwards on his chest. “You need to catch Aramis!” Athos shouted to Porthos, as he began to slice the rope that tied Aramis and d’Artagnan to each other and the stake. If d’Artagnan was cut loose, Aramis would fall forward into the flames. Aramis wasn’t making any noise anymore, which meant that he had probably lost consciousness as well, and would not be able to save himself.

“I’ve got him.” Porthos shouted back, flinging himself around to the other side of the stake, and Athos gave the last final cuts to the ropes, careful to avoid being burned himself.

d’Artagnan slumped forward, but Athos was ready for him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him up and clear of the burning wood and hay beneath them. He stuck the knife through the material of his trousers to keep it attached to him, before hoisting d’Artagnan up and over his shoulder. He saw Porthos on the other side, lifting Aramis into his arms and holding him like a damsel, which gave Athos a momentary flashback to the night Athos had saved Aramis on the steps of Notre Dame and had met Porthos in the Court, passing him an unconscious Aramis to hold for the first time, and to carry to the Court to fix him.

The time that they had taken to get d’Artagnan and Aramis free of the fire had allowed soldiers to begin to circle round, a recovered Richelieu firing seething orders at them all.

“What do we do?” He asked Porthos.

Porthos’ gaze was fixed over the soldiers and over the crowds to the Notre Dame Cathedral. “Sanctuary.” He bit out.

Without wasting another second, Athos tightened his hold on d’Artagnan, hanging limply over his shoulder, and took off after Porthos and down the stairs, before racing towards the Notre Dame. Soldiers tried to stop them but the crowd did a good job of holding them back, the tables turning.

Richelieu must have figured out their destination, because his voice screamed after them to the surrounding soldiers, “Do not let them get to the Notre Dame! Burn it to the ground if you have to! Just don’t let them in!”

The soldiers converged some more, and just when Athos and Porthos' path looked well and truly blocked, unable to get any further toward the Notre Dame without being killed, a voice rang out loud over the crowds, clear and crisp over the commotion.

Treville was standing on top of his cage, holding a sword in the air. “Citizens of Paris! For too long Richelieu has persecuted our people! He has ransacked our city! And now he is declaring war on Notre Dame herself! Will we allow it?”

The crowd roared with the ‘no’ that that question encouraged, and with a new, ignited force, the crowd descended on the soldiers, brandishing all sorts of objects as weapons.

Athos and Porthos were out of breath by the time that they reached the steps of the Notre Dame, but they had made it. Made it to the place Aramis had almost died after the Massacre of Savoy. Made it to the place where d’Artagnan’s father had been murdered in cold blood. The place that today, would provide them a safe sanctuary.

They raced to the top of the steps and Athos was just about to dislodge d’Artagnan to heave the doors open, when Porthos said, “Wait.”

And Athos stopped.

Porthos was facing the crowd.

Athos noticed that Porthos’ shirt was stained with blood around the shoulder. His stitches had broken and the wound had reopened at the stress of fighting and carrying Aramis. But Porthos paid it no heed.

Porthos adjusted his grip on Aramis, before lifting him up into the air above his head. Athos watched open mouthed as Porthos yelled out to the crowd “Sanctuary!” Blood was seeping down the back of Porthos’ shirt at the strain his shoulder was under and his broken hand had to be in agony where it held Aramis up between the shoulder blades. Aramis’ arms were splayed out in his limp unconsciousness, head tilted back. “Sanctuary!” Porthos yelled again.

The crowd cheered in support at Porthos’ words. But soldiers were still racing forward.

Porthos hefted Aramis back into his arms with a pained grunt, holding him close to his chest, and Athos wrestled with the door whilst attempting to keep d’Artagnan on his shoulder.

Once the door was slammed shut and barred behind them, the silence that met them in the Notre Dame was almost stifling. The thick walls and doors meant that the chaos outside was almost entirely muted. There was not a soul to be seen within the Notre Dame, but the Archdeacon had to be around somewhere because Richelieu had him shut inside the Notre Dame before the execution when he had tried to protest.

“Upstairs.” Athos said, leading Porthos to the staircase he and Aramis had discovered less than two weeks before.

“At the top of the stairs, there is a room to the right with beds and a basin.” A voice said behind them, and they turned to spot the Archdeacon kneeling among the pews. “I will hold them back for as long as I am able.”

“Thank you.” Athos said, before they climbed the stone staircase.

It was an effort, carrying d’Artagnan and climbing at the same time, but Athos kept a careful hold on him in the narrow stairwell.

“Aramis will be sad to have missed your little moment out there.” Athos commented through pants of exertion. “He does love those types of dramatics.”

“Yeah, well,” Porthos’ voice was strained with pain and determination, “we can tell him about it when he wakes up. Though he’ll be absolutely thrilled to have been a part of it, I’m sure.”

Athos did not voice his concern that neither d’Artagnan nor Aramis had made any sign of coming around yet, and neither did Porthos. Athos was still reeling over the sudden turn of events. One moment he had thought he was going to watch on as his lovers burned, and the next moment, in a feat Athos had deemed impossible, they had managed to save them. The thought that they had still been too late was too much to bear, so he tried not to think about it, not until they got to the top.

They found the room the Archdeacon told them of immediately. Athos remembered seeing it when he and Aramis had been searching for an escape from the Cathedral the day of the Festival. There were two doors to the room; one that they entered through, which was joined to the room with the bells and the staircases, and one that led outside to one of the stone walkways of the upper structure of the Notre Dame. The room was small, but it had two beds and a chest which held a jug of water and a basin; presumably a room for people who sought sanctuary there and had nowhere else to go.

Athos carefully lowered d’Artagnan from his shoulder and onto one bed, as Porthos placed Aramis on the other, with a gentle hand on the back of Aramis’ head. It was only then that Athos dared himself to take stock of d’Artagnan and Aramis' injuries. The fire had burnt the skin of their feet, but not so badly that it had taken away too much flesh. They had made it in time that the fire had not taken hold and eaten away at them. The skin was a layer down in some places, maybe, sore, shiny pink and blistered. The hair on their feet and lower legs was gone. They would heal, Athos thought, so long as the burns did not get infected. It was not the burns that concerned Athos so much as the inhalation of the smoke. He had heard of burnings where the victims had been dead before the flames had even touched them.

d’Artagnan’s eyes were closed. His long, dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. His mouth was slack and his lips were parted. He could have been sleeping, were it not for the smell of burnt hair and flesh and the dark smutty layer of dirt on the young man’s skin. Athos held two fingers to d’Artagnan’s neck, praying for a pulse to be there. He leaned down and felt the slight gust of breath against his cheek and he nearly sobbed with thankfulness. “He’s alive.” He let out a sigh of relief and was just about to stand up to get some water, when Porthos said,

“Aramis isn’t.” Porthos’ voice was barely a breathed confession of someone in disbelieving shock. But Athos heard him.

Athos’ world felt like it had stopped. “What?” He had heard him, but he did not dare believe it.

“Aramis isn’t breathing.” Porthos said again, quick and terrified, the shock suddenly verging in to panic.

Athos scrambled to Porthos and Aramis. Porthos already had his hands on Aramis’ face, smoothing his fingers over beardless skin and pushing back into his hair. “No, no, no…” Porthos was murmuring, “Don’t do this to me, ‘Mis. Don’t leave us.”

Athos reached past Porthos, hand shaking as he reached for Aramis’ neck, and laid the other over Aramis’ chest. There was no pulse, and he could not feel a heartbeat.

“Athos.” Porthos’ voice was rough and broken. He was already crying. His fingers hovered over Aramis’ lips, which were unusually dry and cracked from being gagged all night.  Even though Porthos couldn’t have felt any breath under his fingers, he still begged “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I can’t…” Athos whispered, choking on his grief, “I can’t feel anything…Porthos…”

Porthos sobbed loudly, head dropping to rest against Aramis’. Athos sat down heavily on the floor, the devastation too much to bear, and groped for Aramis’ lifeless hand and pressed it against his mouth, not even trying to stop the tears from spilling from his eyes.

“Fuck.” Porthos choked, and he shifted so to get a better grip on lifeless shoulders. “Don’t do this to us. Aramis." he sobbed, " _Please_. Don’t leave us. Oh god, please don’t leave us.”

Athos was whispering similar pleas against Aramis’ knuckles.

“Forgive us.” Porthos was saying, when Athos tuned back in to him, “We were too late. I’m so so sorry Aramis, please just…”

A shuddering cough broke their litanies and Athos glanced over to see d’Artagnan’s body shaking with dry coughs.

“Wow, wow…” Porthos gently let go of Aramis, tears still falling, and rushed over to d’Artagnan’s side, his need to care and support momentarily outweighing his grief. And maybe he needed the distraction of saving d’Artagnan to slip into a moment of denial about being too late to save Aramis. “d’Art, are you there, can you hear me?”

Athos placed Aramis’ hand carefully back on the bed, smoothing hair back from his face and pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. Aramis’ face was damp from Porthos’ tears that had broken through the smoky grime that had dirtied his skin. His eyes were closed and Athos was sickened with grief to know he would never seen those dark, smiling eyes again.

Athos moved to fill a cup of water from the basin and joined Porthos at d’Artagnan’s bedside. They needed to care of d’Artagnan, to make sure they did not lose him too, but it also hurt to have to leave Aramis lying there. They would have time to say goodbye later, and god, Athos did not want to have to think about that.

d’Artagnan’s eyes were fluttering, and Porthos caught his flailing hand with his good one.

“It’s ok,” Porthos murmured to him, “We’re here, d’Artagnan. We’ve got you. You’re safe.” He choked slightly on the last word, and Athos closed his eyes against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, unable to glance at the immobile form on the other bed. Porthos then looked to Athos, “You’d better…” he said, shifting to give Athos room to curl a hand around the back of d’Artagnan’s head and hold the cup to his lips, letting water trickle between them.

d’Artagnan spluttered once, swallowed, coughed some more, his body moving with the force of them, and then, thankfully, his eyes flicked open and stayed open. He let in a wrenching gasp of air.

“Hey, hey.” Athos soothed, his own voice sounding as rough and shattered as Porthos’. He petted d’Artagnan’s face with his hands. “Easy, d’Art, easy.”

“Aramis.” was the first word out of d’Artagnan’s mouth as his eyes darted around him in disorientation. He sounded frightened, his gaze barely settling on them as the fingers on his free hand opened and closed, as though not understanding where the hand that had held his before he had blacked out had gone. “Where’s Aramis?”

 “He…” Porthos tried, and failed with the sound of a wounded animal that shook Athos to his very core. He had known Porthos grieve for far too many of his close friends over the years. He had heard him sob and rage an unfair existence. But he had never heard that sound before. It scratched slowly over his heart and left him bleeding.

“d’Art…” Athos tried, ignoring that feeling of grasping claws squeezing and raking at his chest, “I’m sorry, but he…we couldn’t…”

“We were too late.” Porthos’ self-accusatory utterance had d’Artagnan grasping weakly at him, moving to sit up before groaning in pain and unable to lift himself very far.

“What?” d’Artagnan’s sounded confused, his voice barely a whisper, as though he did not comprehend what had been said to him. Athos did not know if that was because of denial at their words or the pain he was undeniably in from the burns on his feet and the cloying smoke in his lungs. His eyes were glazing over. It looked like he was about to slip back in to unconsciousness again. The pleas to stop that from happening had formed on Athos’ tongue, but they were stolen from him when a voice spoke from behind them.

“Such a pity, to mar such perfect flesh, but perfect flesh deceives and masks the demons within.”

Athos flung himself around to find Judge Richelieu standing in the doorway. The Judge was alone. He was red in the face, his clothing and grey hair askew and his eyes wide with a wild fury. He had a knife in his hand. Athos immediately had his knife in hand too, and he moved forward to attempt to protect Aramis’ body from Richelieu in the same instant that Porthos had shot to his feet to block a slipping d’Artagnan from the Judge’s view.

“I am sick and fucking tired of your preaching bullshit.” Porthos’ voice was still rough from his tears, but it held dark, furious murder within every syllable. A promise that either he or Richelieu would not be leaving the Notre Dame alive, or neither of them were. Whilst Athos was of a similar mind set, the thought of Porthos being willing to die in order to kill Richelieu was too hard to bear. Aramis was gone, d’Artagnan was teetering on the edge, and Porthos had clearly had enough. Ten minutes ago, Athos had thought that the four of them had been saved of their dark fates; Aramis and d’Artagnan freed from the fire, Athos from torture and the hangman’s noose, and Porthos from being taken apart and humiliated, and being made to watch everyone he cared about that was left, die. But now…well, Athos was damned if he was going to be the one left alone in this new, terrible twist in circumstances. Porthos was snarling now, reduced to a cornered beast with his hackles raised beyond redemption, “You mask your own twisted, evil beliefs behind all your fucking religious talk.” He flung his good arm out at the beds, “They aren’t demons. They never were. They were men. They were just _men._ ”

Richelieu seemed to completely ignore the questioning of his religious purpose, instead only catching interest at the last of Porthos’ rant. His eyebrow twitched upward. “They _were_?” His eyes fell to the beds, “The fire claimed them?”

“You killed them!” Athos spat. It was best for Richelieu to think he had killed both, so that he did not try to finish off d’Artagnan. Athos could feel his muscles coiling and his blood rushing and raging in his veins. He had never felt so angry. And he had never ever been possessed with such an urge toward brutality until now. He wanted to carve into Richelieu’s chest and rip his heart out, hold it and crush it in his hand, let it bleed out over Richelieu’s dying face, and let him know exactly how Athos was currently feeling.

A harsh fit of coughing caught their attention, and Porthos shifted warily as Richelieu’s focus turned to the centre of his obsession. “Them? Only one, it seems,” Richelieu observed. “This is a sign that the boy could have been saved,” Athos felt sick, not wanting to imagine Richelieu’s intentions for d’Artagnan if the younger man had chosen him over the flames. “But, he chose his fate at the stake. He chose the fire over me.” Richelieu actually sounded bitter about d’Artagnan’s choice, like he really had wanted d’Artagnan to choose him, to be his. The knife in Richelieu’s hand moved as he tightened his grip on it “So I have come to end his suffering.”

“Like fuck you have.” Porthos yelled, his suddenly loud voice breaking the deafening claustrophobia of the Notre Dame, and Athos swore the nearest bells to the little room echoed the sound back to them. “You are not touching either of them again.”

“And how will you stop me, oh King?” Richelieu asked with a curl of his lip, eyeing Porthos’ lack of weapon and taking stock of his injuries, the blood staining his shirt. “You are not armed.”

“Unarmed innocents,” Athos commented disdainfully, “Your favourite type of victim.” and before he knew what was happening, Richelieu had surged into him.

Athos had always found knives much harder to fight with than swords. Swords were easier to parry and fight from long distance, whereas knives required close combat, blades stabbing rather than clashing. He had to grab Richelieu’s wrist to stop the Judge’s blade plunging into his chest, just as Richelieu had to grab onto him to save his stomach. They struggled for a moment, locked at a checkmate, before Porthos decided to get involved. He crashed into Richelieu, pushing Athos free as he did so, and allowed Athos the room to move out of the knife’s reach, before surging in for another attack. Porthos punched Richelieu square in the jaw, and the crack it made was more than satisfying.

“You killed him!” Porthos accused, mad with his rage. He raised his fist and hit Richelieu again, “You killed Aramis!”

“The fire knew he was the most sinful.” Richelieu said, slashing out with his knife to keep Porthos back. “The _fire_ took him, not _me_. The demons dragged him back down among them.”

Porthos made a growl of frustrated fury. “Can you not see that you are the only monster here?”

Richelieu snarled angrily. Before Athos could step in, Richelieu had charged forwards. He and Porthos collided and the two of them stumbled backwards out of the door that led outside, trading blows as they went, Porthos barely dodging the blade of the Judge’s knife. Athos followed them. He wrenched Porthos away from Richelieu, but in his attempt to keep Porthos out of harm’s way, Richelieu slashed out with his knife.

“Oh.” Athos let out a noise of surprise as he looked down at his stomach, where the shirt was torn and blood was forming on the material. The wound was shallow, but it was enough to have he and Porthos stunned for long enough for Richelieu to smack Athos’ knife from his hand. Richelieu shoved Athos and he stumbled back.

“No!” Porthos shouted, running forwards as Richelieu gave Athos another shove.

Athos was not quite sure what was going on, until he realised he was being pushed over the stone walling of the walkway. Athos fought back, but the Judge was surprisingly strong. It all happened in only a matter of seconds. And the next thing Athos knew he was dangling about 50 metres off the ground, if not more. And the only thing keeping him from plunging to his death was Porthos.

“Oh god.” Athos hissed out between his teeth. He did not dare look down, his feet dangling uselessly above the miniature-looking city below. He looked up at Porthos.

Porthos was holding onto Athos’ left hand with both of his, and the renewed stress on his broken hand and bleeding shoulder was obvious in the look of pain on Porthos’ face. The wound on Athos’ stomach ached from the stretch. He looked for a protruding bit of stone to grab with his other hand.

“Don’t let me go.” Athos told Porthos.

Porthos let out a harsh noise between his teeth that might have been a laugh if this whole situation wasn’t so terrible and absurd, “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Well, I may be a problem for you there, boys.”

Athos looked up and saw Richelieu standing over Porthos, knife still in hand. With Porthos holding on to Athos, there was no way he could defend himself.

“It’s fitting, really, in the end.” Richelieu was saying. “Athos gets let down like he let me down, Porthos dies a prisoner in the highest place he’s ever been after a living of being a King in the squalid underground, and then, I’ll either keep or kill d’Artagnan. He’ll be mine to decide.”

Even dangling as he was. Athos could see the utter mania in the man’s eyes. He had well and truly lost whatever sanity he had left.

Athos looked back to Porthos. “Let me go.” He changed his mind. Porthos could not defend himself whilst Athos was holding on to him.

“Never.” Porthos gritted out, “I’m not going to.” With adrenaline strength, because that was surely all Porthos could be running on now, he began to lift Athos up.

Athos was just a finger-length shy of grasping the stone edge when Richelieu decided he had seen enough and raised his knife, “And he shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit!” Richelieu yelled, and Athos closed his eyes. He could not see Porthos get killed above him. He waited for the sickening feeling of falling and falling and falling…

But it did not come.

Athos opened his eyes.

Richelieu was no longer standing over Porthos. Porthos hauled Athos up with an exhausted grunt and Athos finally caught hold of the stone and hoisted himself the rest of the way, tumbling back to the stone walkway. He looked up to find d’Artagnan fighting Richelieu. The younger man had clearly pulled him away or knocked him at the last moment.

Athos hissed in pain and held onto the wound on his stomach as he stood. Porthos was already on his feet. d’Artagnan looked fragile and weakened, his skin the palest Athos had ever seen it, a sweat beading his forehead because of the exertion of standing on his burnt feet, but he was still fighting savagely and blindly against Richelieu in order to keep his attention from Porthos and Athos.

Athos started forwards immediately, but, in yet another infuriating twist, Richelieu overpowered d’Artagnan and turned him around, slamming d’Artagnan’s chest against his back and holding the blade to d’Artagnan’s neck.

Athos and Porthos lurched forwards simultaneously, and Richelieu jerked back into the doorway of the room, dragging d’Artagnan with him. “Ah, ah, ah.” Richelieu warned. “One more step and I’ll kill him. You know I will.”

d’Artagnan was looking at them, eyes still glazed slightly from pain, but they were wide with apology as he struggled in Richelieu’s grip.

“Will you?” d’Artagnan’s voice was still coarse because of the smoke, but it was alert enough and, ultimately, testing; “But wouldn’t you rather keep me?”

The knife at d’Artagnan’s neck wavered and Athos twitched.

“You chose the fire.” Richelieu decided after a moment and the knife steadied again.

“I have faced the fire.” d’Artagnan said, “And I do not want to face it again.” d’Artagnan had always been quick with his silver tongue if he wanted to be. Not to them, of course, they could tell in a heartbeat if d’Artagnan was lying to them, but that was because they knew him better than they knew themselves. Athos knew d’Artagnan was lying now, but Richelieu did not know, and d’Artagnan was playing right in to his hands on purpose. “I survived the flames. Maybe fate made it this way because I made the wrong choice.”

“It is possible.” Richelieu whispered, his free hand moving from its secure hold of d’Artagnan’s chest to travel up to trace his throat next to the knife.

“You will never know if you kill me.”

“That is true…” Richelieu was pondering, and Athos tensed, preparing to leap in the second Richelieu let d’Artagnan go. But then Richelieu shook his head and tightened his grip on d’Artagnan, the hand that had been tracing his skin tightening and squeezing, the blade pressing into the bottom of d’Artagnan’s chin. d’Artagnan’s eyes widened and he scrabbled at the hold, choking. “You are lying.” Richelieu breathed into d’Artagnan’s ear, loud enough for Athos and Porthos to hear, his eyes locked on them as he held the squirming d’Artagnan tight in his arms. “But then, maybe you have a point. Maybe when these two are dead, I will keep you anyway.”

“Over my dead body.”

Athos stumbled back, bracing himself on the stone behind him and saving himself from toppling back over again. That voice. He glanced to Porthos, who had let out a strangled noise before freezing in place. And then Athos looked back to where a knife was being pressed to Richelieu’s neck in turn. But…the person who had spoken…the one holding Richelieu captive as he held d’Artagnan captive. It could not be. Because Athos had been sure he was dead.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked, having only heard the voice, unaware of what was taking place behind him.

“Hello my star.” Aramis’ voice came from behind Richelieu. “You. Move.”

Richelieu shifted, taking d’Artagnan with him, guided by the blade at his neck, forward onto the stone walkway. It brought Aramis into view as he stepped out of the doorway and onto the walkway. Aramis, who was very, very much alive.

His eyes were brimmed with pained tears from standing on his feet, but his jaw was clenched in determination. And he was alive. Athos could not comprehend it. The rushing relief churning his stomach had left him speechless and his legs weak.

“You were dead.” Richelieu said what all of them had been thinking.

Aramis’ voice was as cracked and ruined as d’Artagnan’s, but that did not stop him from speaking to Richelieu. “Was I? Well, consider me a messenger from the heavens, then. I have been brought back to smite you for your sins, Judge.” His knife pressed into Richelieu’s neck, and blood beaded along the edge. Athos recognised the knife and realised Aramis must have picked up the one that had been knocked from Athos’ hand by Richelieu before. “Now let d’Artagnan go.” Aramis hissed.

But as Aramis dug the blade in to Richelieu’s flesh, Richelieu mirrored the motion on d’Artagnan.

d'Artagnan let out a pained whimper.

“Wait.” Porthos spoke out, finally moving and not standing as though he had been turned to stone. He raised a hand in a placating gesture, and Aramis caught the meaning of it, growling at Richelieu for hurting d’Artagnan.

“Let him go or I will kill you.” Aramis warned.

“Now that would be a foolish move.” Richelieu appeared to have recovered from the shock of having being caught by surprise, because there was a gleam in his eyes again. “If you kill me while I have hold of him, chances are I’ll kill him before I hit the floor. Or maybe I will just kill him first. Either way, if I die, you lose d’Artagnan. And then he will still be mine, not in this life but the next, because I will take him with me.”

“You twisted bastard.” Porthos hissed.

“I’ll never be yours.” d’Artagnan yelled at him, renewing his efforts at freeing himself without slicing his own throat open in the process.

“Do not worry, boys.” Aramis said, “Our 'good' Judge is bluffing. You want to know how I know?” He stretched to speak straight into Richelieu’s ear with a macabre smile. “I think you are afraid of dying. Because deep down under all that insanity you know you are going to hell for what you’ve done.”

“I would fear for my immortal soul if I were you, Judge.” Athos added, finding his voice and his strength again, keeping a protective hand over his bleeding belly. “Because your soul is black and cruel and weighed down by your sins. No paradise is going to let you in.”

Richelieu snarled. “You are wrong. I have been doing the Lord’s work.”

“How many times do we have to tell you?” Porthos said, edging forwards towards d’Artagnan. He glanced at Athos, and Athos understood what he meant and prepared himself. Aramis read the situation as well and gave Athos the slightest of nods. d’Artagnan was watching Athos and Porthos too, and slowed down his efforts of escape at their interaction. Porthos was still speaking, “You are not on some godly mission. There are no angels involved, no demons. Just us men…And you. You are the monster.”

Richelieu made a noise of animalistic rage. He released d’Artagnan and ducked back from the knife at his neck whilst slamming an elbow into Aramis. d’Artagnan flew forward into Athos’ waiting arms. And Richelieu wasted no time in hurling himself at Porthos.

“How would you know?” Richelieu shrieked at him, “You are just a common lowborn gypsy! Filth!”

“I’m a better man than you've ever been!” Porthos raged, attacking Richelieu back with all his might.

d’Artagnan was slumping into Athos’ side, and Athos propped him up against the stone walling, eyes intent on Porthos. He needed to intervene. Aramis was wavering in the doorway, knife in hand, but looked afraid to throw it in case it hit Porthos.

In the end, the decision was made for them, because one moment Porthos and Richelieu were battling each other, and the next moment (and Athos would never be certain of who shoved who) one hauled the other over the low stone wall Athos had not long been pulled back over, and the other dragged him down with him.

*

Richelieu had dropped the knife. His fingers clung at a jutting gargoyle. His feet dangled in the air, tens of metres over Paris; the city he had burned to the ground in search of the demons sent to test him. And he had been so, so close at ridding himself from their heathen wiles, from ridding himself of their pestilence.

He glanced at where Porthos, one of the Kings of the Court of Miracles, dangled from his own gargoyle. At least Richelieu would take one with him. The one he had been chasing since his mission began all those decades ago. That would be triumph at least, he supposed. Not as satisfying as it had been to have had all four of them chained up in a cell at his mercy. Not as delicious as d’Artagnan and Aramis burning at the stake, Athos and Porthos locked up and unable to do anything but watch, knowing what fates awaited them. But it would do. It would be enough.

But then Athos was there, the man that played at being a nobleman and failed. The man that played at being a soldier and betrayed the role. And now he was playing with devils and demons. How proud his noble father must be. The traitorous soldier was reaching for Porthos’ hand and finally caught a hold – the hand Richelieu had felt snap under his own fingers – the hand that would fail Porthos’ grip on the gargoyle first. Athos and Porthos had been close - had been friends and allies - for far longer than Richelieu had ever initially suspected when Athos had betrayed them and joined the Court. Porthos had corrupted him, just as Milady had corrupted Athos before that. Or, maybe, it was Athos that was the poisonous one and had corrupted them instead.

And then Aramis appeared. He was calling for Porthos, reaching out for Porthos’ other hand. Aramis. The witch that just would not die. He had not died when he had been a boy with a different name. He did not die every time he swallowed fire or a blade or dodged a knife. He had not died when all those with him in the troupe from Savoy had perished. And now, Richelieu had seen with his very own eyes that not even burning this demon would kill him. He needed to be burnt and crumbled down and stamped into ash, and scattered upon waves; if he had no vessel for a demon to hide in, then he would not come crawling back as he had just done. Richelieu should have known that.

Athos was calling to Porthos, “I’ve got you. Take Aramis’ hand.”

“Porthos.” Aramis said desperately as Porthos’ hand started slipping, “Athos is injured too and he can’t hold you if you let go of the stone. Trust me, I’m here, grab my hand.”

Richelieu looked at his own hands. He noticed they were slipping too in the effort to hold him up and stop him plunging down.

He looked up. And he saw d’Artagnan leaning over the stone right above him. Looking down at him.

Young, beautiful, enchanting d’Artagnan.

“I could never be yours.” d’Artagnan said to him. “I belong to three hearts already. I could never belong to you.”

The sun came out of the clouds at the back of d’Artagnan’s head, and lit him like a halo.

And suddenly Richelieu was struck with a fear that came full force with such ferocity that it took his breath away. Maybe d’Artagnan was not crafted and tutored by the three demons beside him as a weapon to test Richelieu and distract him from his mission. Maybe d’Artagnan was actually an avenging angel. Maybe d’Artagnan’s purpose had always been to smite _him_. Because maybe _Richelieu_ was the one that was wrong.

The gargoyle he clung to stared at him like it knew. Like it knew all he had done. Like it was judging him for it. Before his very eyes it seemed to contort and come to life. Just before the stone gave an almighty crack.

He looked back to d’Artagnan, who was now looking at the crack in the stone. d’Artagnan’s eyes fell on him again, and Richelieu was taken back to all those years ago, when he dragged a fifteen year old boy towards a well with the intention of throwing him down it, watching from above as another gypsy fell into the darkness. Oh, how the tables had turned. Now it was d’Artagnan that looked down at him, waiting for him to fall.

d’Artagnan smiled.

The gargoyle gave up on its hold of the Notre Dame.

For a moment Richelieu felt like he was flying and he wondered whether his final fears had been misplaced. Maybe he would just keep flying.

But then flying turned into falling.

And he kept falling.

And eventually, the ground rushed up to meet him. Hell cracked itself open to welcome him in.

*

Aramis had woken up to shouts and his skin had felt it like it was on fire. For a fleeting moment he had been terrified that he was still on the stake, and had only passed out for a moment or two, before returning to suffer through it conscious. But when he had taken stock of his surroundings, he had been in a small room, with the stone walls reminding him somewhat of those the Notre Dame Cathedral was made out of. He had been disorientated. He had looked down at his feet and nearly gagged at the state of them. If he was here, he had wondered, then where was d’Artagnan? And Athos and Porthos? The shouting, he had found, was coming from outside, and when he looked out of the doorway, he had seen Athos and Porthos standing side by side. Athos was bleeding from his stomach. Porthos was bleeding from his shoulder. His stained red warriors had been watching Richelieu, who was stood just outside the doorway, and had been holding d’Artagnan by the throat and threatening his life.

It had all come back to Aramis at that moment. He had remembered some sort of commotion or rebellion in the crowds. He had assumed that if he was here, then he had, by some miracle, been saved. d’Artagnan too. But d’Artagnan’s life was still hanging on the line. And Aramis was not having that.

When he had exclaimed “Over my dead body.” he had noticed the way Athos and Porthos had stared at him in shock, like they had been looking at a ghost. And he had realised that maybe ‘dead body’ had been a correct phrase to use. Though he was not sure he truly could believe it.

His intervention had worked. But that was before he had seen Richelieu and Porthos shove and drag each other over the edge of the Notre Dame.

Aramis’ heart leapt in to his mouth and his stomach dropped at the fear of losing Porthos. He raced to the side of the wall, nearly flinging himself over it in his haste. He let out a relieved sob to see Porthos dangling, still with them, gripping on to the stone.

Athos was beside Aramis in an instant.

“I’ve got you.” Athos said as he grabbed Porthos’ broken hand. Aramis reached for the other. “Take Aramis’ hand.” Athos ordered of him.

“Porthos.” Aramis said, and Porthos was still looking at him like he was some kind of a miracle, or a ghost, or possibly both. “Athos is injured too and he can’t hold you if let go of the stone.” he reasoned, breath freezing in his sore throat as he saw Porthos’ fingers slip on the stone another fraction. “Trust me,” He urged. “I’m here,” He promised. “Grab my hand.”

Porthos looked drained of almost everything he had. He had lost a lot of blood from the wound in his shoulder, which Aramis hoped was just the old one that had reopened and not a new one. His broken hand was being clenched tightly by Athos, which must be agonising. But Aramis needed Porthos to hold on.

Aramis was dimly aware of d’Artagnan standing not far from him, clearly not wanting to get in the way of Porthos’ rescue. He vaguely registered d’Artagnan saying something to Richelieu, who was hanging off the next gargoyle along from the one Porthos was holding on to.

“I don’t think I can.” Porthos’ words were garbled and so tired. “I can’t…” His fingers slipped again and Aramis lurched forward.

“You have to.” Athos said. “Do you hear us, Porthos? You have to let go and grab Aramis or else you are going to die. And we need you here with us. All three of us. Because Aramis is with us, see?”

Porthos nodded. He looked like he was steeling himself to let go and try, knowing that if he did and missed, then Athos would most likely not be able to keep a hold of Porthos’ other hand for long. They all knew it.

“You didn’t let me go.” Athos said, and Aramis wondered what the hell he meant. Had Athos been thrown over the edge before Aramis had woken up? Surely not. “That’s our thing, Porthos. It always has been. We never let each other go.”

A determination that had not been in Porthos’ eyes a moment ago flared to life. “Ok.” He decided. And he let go of the gargoyle with determination, flinging his hand out and up towards Aramis.

Aramis caught it. Of course he did. He was not letting Porthos leave him that easily.

At the same second, Richelieu’s own gargoyle gave way, and he went plummeting towards the ground. He was screaming.

Aramis hoped he would never stop screaming. But he also hoped Richelieu would soon hit the ground. Hard.

d’Artgnan was suddenly beside Aramis as they hauled Porthos up a bit further, because he was able to grab onto Porthos’ arm and help lift him over.

The moment Porthos was clear of danger, he toppled over the stone wall and they all tumbled to the floor.

They all lay there for a few moments. Aramis was on his back, looking up at the sky he thought he’d never see again. The adrenaline rush was wearing off and he was beginning to feel the agony in his feet again. His chest rose and fell quickly in an attempt to draw air down a sensitive throat.

The next thing he knew, Porthos had rolled over and was leaning over him. They stared at each other for a moment, before Porthos gave him an urgent, pressing kiss.

“You were dead.” He whispered, dark eyes searching Aramis’ face.

Aramis didn’t know what to tell him. “I’m not leaving you so easily.” He answered finally.

Porthos kissed him again, tears beading in his long lashes, and Aramis was about to get lost in the kiss, before he remembered that he and Athos had quite literally just pulled Porthos out of the air. “Hey.” He pulled away, hands gentle on Porthos’ battered body, “Hey, wait a moment.”

Porthos pulled back, and Aramis sat up, hissing the pain away. Porthos and Athos sat up at the sound in concern, but with winces of their own, and Aramis waved them away. Porthos moved to sit up against the wall he just fell over, and d’Artagnan moved carefully into his arms, dragging himself over rather than using his feet. Athos put his fingers under d’Artagnan’s chin and lifted it, eyeing the cut that Richelieu’s knife had made, before sealing his lips over d’Artagnan’s. “Are you ok?”

d’Artagnan nodded tiredly. “I’ve had enough ‘adventure’ to last me a lifetime.”

Porthos smiled, holding him tighter, despite the injuries in his arms, and pressed his lips to d’Artagnan’s temple.

Aramis decided to leave trying to stand for later, and scooted over to where Athos had sat himself up, pressed alongside Porthos, holding his good hand tightly. Aramis did not speak to him, merely parting the ripped shirt to inspect Athos’ stomach. “Not too deep.” He diagnosed. “Though it will need stitching, I think, just to be safe.”

He glanced up to check on Athos, but Athos was just staring at him like he had stared at Milady when she had come back from the ‘dead’. “We really did think you were dead. We…” Athos’ breath hitched, “You were dead.”

Aramis paused. “We nearly lost Porthos over the edge of a Cathedral. You could have been gutted or fallen yourself. d’Artagnan could have had his throat slit, if the fire hadn’t killed him first. We were all pretty close to death, today.” God, it hurt him to think of any of those scenarios, so he brushed them aside. Not now.

Richelieu was gone. They were not. Now was not the time to dwell on the ‘what ifs’.

“Not as close as you.” Athos said, “We didn’t stop breathing.”

 _That_ made Aramis pause. Had he really stopped breathing? Aramis felt his skin go cold at the thought of it. “Well,” he croaked, having to swallow to get some saliva back, “Then I suppose it wasn’t my time. It was a miracle.” His hand groped for the crucifix pendant at his neck, but his hand closed on air.

“They took my rosary.” He frowned, remembering how hard he had fought the soldier that had taken it in the Court of Miracles.

“We’ll get it back.” Porthos promised.

Athos was still looking at him like he was an apparition, about to slip away at any minute. Aramis shifted himself closer and Athos pulled him to him immediately, the both of them ignoring the blood between them. “I’m here.” He said softly, placing a hand on Athos’ cheek, “I’m staying.”

“I don’t know what we would have done without you.” Athos whispered.

“Crashed and burned?” Aramis commented, “Oh wait, no, that happened _with_ me, didn’t it?”

Athos rolled his eyes exasperatedly, lips quirking as Aramis had hoped they would. Aramis kissed the smile, resting his forehead against Athos, “That’s more like it.”

He then rolled over slowly, resting back against Porthos and Athos, mindful to not put pressure on their injuries as they all regained some strength. It laid him out next to d’Artagnan and he looked at him, looking at him properly for the first time since before they were tied to the stake.

“You ok, my star?”

d’Artagnan reached out for him and Aramis wasted no time in bundling him closer. Both of them gritting their teeth against the pain of moving. “Thank you.” d’Artagnan whispered into Aramis’ collarbone. Aramis did not need d’Artagnan to elaborate to know that he was thanking him for being with him on the stake, for singing to him, for saving him from Richelieu…

“Richelieu’s dead.” d’Artagnan suddenly said, as though he could still not believe it. 

“About time.” Porthos said bluntly. “Not soon enough.”

They all lay there for a moment, bundled together, holding on to one another.

“Does that make us freer now, or?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, what now?”

“I…don’t know.”

*

They supported each other down the stairs, Porthos and Athos half-carrying d’Artagnan and Aramis. Each step was painful, but they were all in pain, and they could not just stay up at the top of the Notre Dame forever.

When they reached the bottom, a gasp drew their collected attention to the Archdeacon, who was flanked by two of Richelieu’s men, who Aramis assumed had been charged with keeping the Archdeacon out of Richelieu's way. “My sons,” The Archdeacon said, “You are…” he paused, “The Judge Richelieu?”

“Me and him, we both went off the top.” Porthos said, “He fell. I didn’t.”

The soldiers shifted, clearly unsure what to do about that fact.

Aramis felt Athos’ grip shift on him as he ignored the soldiers and asked. “What is the situation out there?”

The Archdeacon did not know. One of the soldiers said, “The battle was won by the people.”

So that was why the soldiers were still in here, then. They were claiming sanctuary just as they were.

“I need to sit down.” d’Artagnan commented from Porthos’ shoulder. He sounded tired and in pain.

“I can carry you.” Porthos offered.

“I assumed you carried us in.” d’Artagnan said, “There is no way you are carrying us out. Not with your shoulder like that.”

“Oh yes,” Athos remarked to Aramis as they moved painstakingly slowly towards the door, “Remind me to tell you after all this about Porthos’ dramatics just before we carried you in.”

“Oh?” Aramis asked, intrigued, but Porthos just shook his head at him in a ‘not now’ and Aramis sighed.

They finally reached the heavy doors of the Notre Dame.

“Ready for this?” Porthos asked.

“All for one.” d’Artagnan replied immediately, staring at the door determinedly.

Aramis grinned at him; it was an old saying of theirs, one that they usually said to each other right before they were about to jump into something terribly stupid. There was only one response; “One for all.” Aramis, Porthos and Athos muttered back in unison.

They pushed the door open.

They were struck by the sunlight, and then, a deafening cheer from the crowd.

*

The victory in the square was not without its casualties. d’Artagnan tried not to look too closely at the bodies being carried away for fear of recognising someone. No-one had spoken of finding Richelieu’s body. For that he was glad. He did not want to imagine what a human body would look like after a fall from such a height.

But the fact he was dead? Well that was the talk of the city.

d’Artagnan and Aramis had been laid out on beds and were being cared for right there on the square. The Parisians had rallied together to gather makeshift healing facilities and equipment. Athos and Porthos had refused to be put out of action, but had had to sit long enough for stitches and for Porthos to have his fingers splinted.

Porthos, still feeling the responsibility as one of the Kings of the Court, was back out helping people again. And Athos had done the same shortly after.

d’Artagnan could hardly believe that the four of them were together and alive. They had a lot of healing to do, but otherwise, they were safe. It was a stark contrast to the bleakness of that morning, and the almost certain knowledge that they would all be dying terrible, cruel deaths. It had felt like a long time since d’Artagnan had felt safe like this.

Richelieu was gone. After decades of persecution, the man that hunted gypsies down for the crime of being who they were was gone. He was gone.

He tilted his head to watch Aramis. The older man was asleep. The Spanish lyrics of the song Aramis sang to him to try and calm him even as their death had crept up towards them swam in his mind and he had to swallow heavily against the urge to cry. Athos had been right in what he had said, that they would have been lost without Aramis. But it was not just the loss of Aramis that d’Artagnan had faced that day. Seeing Athos and Porthos both hanging off the side of the Notre Dame had been beyond terrifying. He had nearly lost his Inseparables far too many times over the last few weeks. He hoped that with the death of Richelieu, the near deaths of the men he loved would also cease to exist.

He was pulled from his melancholy thoughts when a soft hand landed on his cheek. He looked up to see Constance smiling fondly down at him.

“Constance.” He breathed out with a smile, accepting the water she lifted to his lips. “I am so glad to see you are ok. I am so sorry for what…”

“Enough of that.” She scolded softly. “None of this is your fault, so there is nothing to apologise for.” She looked over him, fingers careful under his chin and over his shaved cheeks, and then down at his feet, “Oh d’Artagnan.” She breathed, voice wobbling, “Seeing you on that stake was…” She made a distressed noise and did not continue what she was going to say, instead leaning down to wrap her arms around him. “I am so so thankful to have you still here.”

An awkward cough had her pulling away, but not too far. d’Artagnan almost rolled off the bed when he saw that Jacques Bonacieux was standing beside them.

“Monsieur Bonacieux…” d’Artagnan started, “I…”

“I know who you are.” Jacques told him, cutting off d'Artagnan's explanations before he could even begin to voice them, “My wife has told me everything.” He regarded d’Artagnan up and down, “You are the one who taught her to fight?”

“Yes Sir.” d’Artagnan waited to be challenged to a duel or something for teaching a woman a skill that was none of her business. A challenge now would not be the best timing, seeing as though he could not stand up on his own.

But all Jacques did was nod shortly, “It most likely saved her life today. And mine. So thank you.”

d’Artagnan blinked in surprise. He had been kept a secret from Jacques Bonacieux for four years. For Jacques to know, and to accept and _thank_ him was quite overwhelming. He also felt exceedingly proud of Constance. “Your wife is an incredible woman, Monsieur Bonacieux.”

“She is.” Jacques pulled on his collar and looked at d’Artagnan a bit more beadily. “She says you have a lover and that you and she never…”

Constance made an angry, exasperated sound, but d’Artagnan just laughed, unable to stop himself glancing at the sleeping Aramis. Jacques naturally missed the look, and the meaning behind it. “I do have love elsewhere, and no, your wife is not an adulterous, Sir. She has been a loyal friend and nothing more.”

Jacques Bonacieux did an awkward little bow, “Then you are welcome to visit at any time.” He made a little grumbly noise, “You showed great courage today. I wish you a speedy recovery.” He did another strange little bow, and then left.

d’Artagnan looked up at Constance in bewilderment before they both burst out laughing. “Well,” d’Artagnan coughed, cursing his throat, “That went well.” He accepted more water when she lifted it to his lips.

“It came as quite a surprise to him, to learn about you.” Constance said.

“You think?” d’Artagnan grinned, “But I think he likes me.”

“Yes.” Constance gave him a tearful smile, “He would be a fool not to,” She brushed his hair back behind his ear, “Now let’s see what I can do about patching you and Aramis up.”

*

Athos sat alone on the steps to the Notre Dame, watching people rush around him. He needed a moment to think. A moment to breath. He braced his arms on his knees, looking down at the stone steps, trying to force his mind away from imagining snapshots of scenarios that could have been; Porthos falling, Aramis not waking up, d’Artagnan being Richelieu’s. He took a breath and looked up again, staring straight ahead. He needed a drink.

He noted someone coming to sit beside him, but he did not acknowledge them.

“So, you aren’t dead then.”

Athos watched a man walk past with the hammer he had presumably used as a weapon during the skirmish. “No.”

“And you aren’t going to be hung.”

“You knew about that?”

He glanced sideways to find Milady watching him, looking slightly offended. “Not until Richelieu gave Constance and I a visit in the cells last night. He said it was fitting.”

They both looked back out to the square again. “It would have been, I suppose.”

“Please." She scoffed, "How cliché.”

“Terribly cliché.” Athos agreed.

They were silent for a moment or two.

“So how exactly did you end up with an escape plan?” Athos could not help but ask. He was intrigued to know.

It had been Milady that had ensured that Athos and Porthos had been freed, that the fight had started, that Athos and Porthos had managed to reach Aramis and d’Artagnan and save them from the fire. He owed her everything, if he did not owe her enough already.

“I had a couple of pins in my underskirts that they didn’t find when they searched us for weapons in the Court.” Milady said, “I freed myself and Constance of our shackles and took the key off our guard when we were being loaded into the cages this morning.”

“You pickpocketed?”

“I have been an informant for years, Athos. Do not look so surprised that I am able to get a key from a guard. It was almost easy.”

Athos let out a laugh. He did not remember the last time he had laughed in her presence. He remembered many happy occasions, of course, just not the last time. “Porthos would be proud of that skill. Stealing a key from a prison guard? You would make a fine gypsy.”

“Or just a fine thief.” She commented.

“Hmm.” Athos agreed, and they slipped into silence again.

“I owe you our lives.” Athos broke it finally, voicing his thoughts aloud.

They owed many people their lives for their help; Constance, Milady, Treville... The Captain was currently busy helping people and restoring order among the ranks of Richelieu's soldiers. He had taken a moment to speak to Athos, however, clasping his arm and telling him he was glad they were alive. But they were alive because of people like him.

“No you don’t.” She said sharply. “I informed on you and got you all into the mess in the first place.” Another pause. “So are you going back to the Court?”

“I don’t know.” Athos answered honestly, “We will have to make a decision about where is safe for us now, or whether we do not actually need such secrecy anymore.” It was strange, talking with his estranged wife, about his future without her and asking her “What about you? Where will you go?” She did not have Richelieu’s protection anymore, after all.

“Away from here.” She said, “I have had my fill of Paris, and seen enough of it destroyed. I will travel to England, probably. Start afresh. You know how I have always wanted to go there.”

They had talked about moving there several times before everything had gone wrong. Those had been happy days. But even those were tarnished now. The soldiers that had arrested them in the Court had taken her forget-me-not locket from him, and he was not sure how hard he would fight to get it back.  “You are not going to stay around to plot your revenge, then?”

Milady gave a short, unamused laugh. “I never thought I would say this, Athos, but after what I have seen and heard in the past few weeks, and after Richelieu’s utter barbarianism…” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, lingering on the bandage around his stomach “I believe you have suffered enough.”

He wanted to tell her he was sorry for what had happened between them. But then he thought of Thomas, and he could not bring himself to do it. She seemed to pick up on this regardless; “I burnt your house down, you know.” She commented.

“You did?” Athos contemplated how he felt about that for a moment. “Huh.”

“You do not sound too upset.” Milady sounded like she was smiling.

“It is not my home anymore.” Athos decided. “I was happy there once,” He glanced at her to find her watching him back. Those eyes he used to love. “But now my happiness lies elsewhere.”

“Your happiness and your heart.” She said, not looking jealous or hurt, just bluntly accepting. “I know that. I have seen it. And I am leaving you to it, now,” She looked away somewhat wistfully “and hoping that I can find the same.”

Athos thought of Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan. How much he loved them. How happy they made him. How he could not bear the thought of losing them. They were his everything, and Milady knew it. As if on cue, he noticed Porthos across the square, finding Flea for the first time since they had been captured and pulling her into a hug. She spoke into his ear and Athos did not miss, even from this distance, the sudden upset on his face as he followed her.

“What is…?” Athos started up at the sight.

“I think that the other King of the Court was killed.” Milady said. She was watching him closely, almost smugly noting his blatant reaction to Porthos’ distress, and also, possibly a little sad that his care was no longer hers.

Athos thought of Charon. Although he had not seen eye to eye with Charon much of the time, he knew how much the other man meant to Porthos. He was saddened at the news of his death. “I should go to him.” He said.

“Then I will not keep you.” She said, standing up and fixing her skirts. She held out her hand. “Olivier.”

“Anne.” Athos responded, taking her hand. “Thank you for today. Without you…” He could not say it, but he knew she knew what he meant. He bent to press a chaste kiss to the back of her hand instead. “I wish you a happy future.” She had killed his brother. But she had saved his lovers. He could at least wish her that.

“And you.” And she actually sounded genuine, before she started to walk away. “And look after those boys of yours.” She threw at him over her shoulder, "They seem to have a penchant for trouble.”

“Then it seems I have a type.” He called after her.

She grinned at him, allowing him a glimpse of the smile that he fell in love with, before she disappeared into the crowd.

*

Porthos knelt over Charon’s body.

Charon had been there for him even before Athos had. It had been him, Charon and Flea against the world. Street rats with nowhere to go, who found the Court they had heard so much about and scurried down into the depths of Paris to live there for the rest of their lives.

They had grown to rule that Court, together. They had always been together.

But now, as Flea held his shoulder tightly and Charon lay before them, they were not together anymore.

“I’m sorry.” He said, to both Flea and Charon. He had caused this trouble, he had let them down.

“Don’t be foolish.” Flea said. “It is not your fault any more than it is ours. It was time that bastard was brought down. In fact, it should have happened years ago. We were too cowardly to make a stand. You and your boys though…” She squeezed his shoulder, “I’m so proud of you Porthos. And Charon was too, it was plain to see. You rose up higher than us, because you are a better person than us.”

Porthos wiped his fist across his eyes to rid himself of tears, and placed a hand on Charon’s, where they had been moved to lie on his chest. “It was always us against the world.” He said.

“And now we don’t have to be, not as much. Charon would be glad to have fought for it.”

Porthos knew he would, but that would not make his passing any less hard. Flea knelt beside him and kissed him on the cheek. She had fierce tears in her eyes. Flea had always hated crying. “I love you, Porthos.” She said, placing her hand over where Porthos’ met Charon’s. “And Charon did too.”

“I know.” Porthos said, unable to stop his own tears. “I love you too. So much.”

Flea flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly. They stayed hunched together for a moment, before a tentative voice called, “Porthos? Flea?”

Athos was standing a few paces away, looking unsure. Athos had been the first to make the three of Porthos, Flea and Charon a four, though Porthos knew that Athos had never really felt like he had belonged among them. “I am sorry for your loss.” Athos said.

“Athos.” Flea smiled through her tears, she stood up, pulling Porthos up with her. “It is good to see you still with us.”

“And you.”

Flea looked up at Porthos, “I will let you and Athos return to d’Artagnan and Aramis. I will see Charon’s body safely away. I will tell you what the plan is for burial.”

Porthos nodded at her, grateful for her organisation when he was acting such an emotional wreck. “Thank you, Flea.”

Flea nodded, before punching Porthos lightly in his good arm, “I hear you nearly took a tumble off the Notre Dame. I know you aren’t used to being above the city Porthos, but if you ever do that again I’ll bring you back to life and kill you again.”

Porthos laughed despite himself, “I am not going back up there for a long, long time. Trust me.”

Flea nodded and turned to speak to a group of gypsies that were collecting bodies from the square. Porthos swallowed down the lump in his throat, and quickly guided Athos in the opposite direction, feeling cruel to leave Charon there, but unable to look at him any longer for fear of breaking down completely and being of no use to anybody.

“Porthos,” Athos squeezed Porthos’ good wrist. “I am sorry about Charon.”

“Thank you.” Porthos said, his voice sounded small even to his own ears.

“I hate to ask, but were there…”

“Old Serge.” Porthos said, the confession painful, “Vadim didn’t make it either, but I hear he went out in a blaze of glory. And there was Adele Bassett of course, I know Aramis could not talk of it after Richelieu told him and gagged him, but that cut him deep, I know it did.”

Athos hummed grimly, his hold tightening slightly. “d’Artagnan and Aramis were with Constance, the last I saw.”

“She promised to keep an eye on them whilst I checked on everyone.”

They walked towards where they had left d’Artagnan and Aramis. “Thank you,” Athos said, “For not letting me go.”

Instead of letting himself linger over the memory of holding onto Athos as Athos dangled over Paris, Porthos let out a surprised laugh, “Like I ever could. Just like you could not let go of me.”

He and Athos had always been that way, saving each other time and time again, since they had been children.

Athos smiled at him as they reached the tented area set up for the wounded, “It appears that we are too co-dependent to let that happen.”

“You are all so co-dependant I could hit you all.” Constance interrupted them, standing with her arms crossed over her chest and actually tapping her foot.

“Please don’t.” d’Artagnan spoke up from his makeshift bed. “Not until I am well enough to be able to run away from you.”

Constance broke immediately, smiling down at him and leaning down to ruffle his hair. “You are a menace, Charles d’Artagnan.” She walked over to smooth a hand over a sleeping Aramis’ forehead, before turning back to Porthos and Athos, “I will leave you boys to it. Aramis has been asleep since you both left, I didn’t have the heart to wake him.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed Athos’ cheek.

“Thank you Constance, for everything.”

“Speak nothing of it.” She said, “And I did have a rather entertaining evening sharing a cell with your charming ex-wife.”

“Do I want to ask?” Porthos asked, raising his eyebrow and laughing as Constance pulled him down to press a kiss to his cheek too.

“I will tell you on a later occasion.” She said, patting his chest. “Get better, the four of you, or you will have me to answer to.”

“We will make sure of it then.” Athos told her.

When Constance had gone, Athos and Porthos seated themselves between d’Artagnan and Aramis’ beds.

“How are you faring?” Athos asked d’Artagnan.

“Well enough.” d’Artagnan said, “I think walking again may take a while though.” he moved his hand out from under the covers and Athos took a hold of it. Because the positioning of the tents meant that they were obscured from view, Porthos leant down to kiss their joined hands. Athos ran his other hand over Porthos’ cheek in response, before letting it linger over the collarbone of the side of Porthos’ ripped, bloodstained shirt.

“Do you think Aramis will be ok?” d’Artagnan asked quietly, his eyes falling on Aramis’ face.

“He’ll be fine.” Porthos answered determinedly. He had to be. Porthos would be damned if he let Aramis try and leave them again.

“I’m not going anywhere.” A rough voice replied, and Aramis’ lips lifted into a drowsy smile before his eyes blinked open. “Don’t worry about me, d’Art.”

Athos and Porthos let go of d’Artagnan’s hand to let him reach over to take hold of Aramis’ instead. d’Artagnan was teary eyed, and his thumb traced back and forth over Aramis’ skin, as if afraid to let him go again. Aramis just smiled at him comfortingly, eyes dark and sleepy. Porthos squeezed his eyes shut to keep fresh tears where they were, and leant down to press a kiss to d’Artagnan’s forehead and then Aramis’. Athos followed suit, and then turned to Porthos, pulling him in for a lingering kiss, pouring love and affection in to it that left Porthos breathless.

They did not speak again of how close they came to losing each other. They would not speak of it for a long time.

Instead, for the time being, they just revelled in the fact that they were all alive, and together, to fight another day.

 

* * *

 

 

**27 June 1482**

 

Porthos had lived all his life on the move, having to keep one step ahead of Richelieu and his men. Now that Richelieu was gone and the soldiers back under the charge of Captain Treville, that was not the case anymore. It was actually quite hard to adjust to, and Porthos had found strolling down the same street as soldiers unsettling, until the day that d’Artagnan had taken his arm and whispered “We don’t have to run anymore.”

It was a huge change for all of them, no longer running. Treville had even lifted the charges against Athos, so the four of them could quite literally walk around Paris without being apprehended. Porthos knew that d’Artagnan had long craved to walk around the city and had despised running through it, something he had had to do from the moment he had arrived in Paris. It was therefore frustrating for the young man that he was unable to walk properly for weeks, so had to wait to heal for that first walk in the city. But when that day had come, d’Artagnan was beaming, and Porthos could not help but smile with him.

They had lost a lot in the battle for their freedom; friends like Charon, Adele, Old Serge and Vadim, but they had gained what they had fought for. He knew Charon would scarcely believe it if he were still here. Yes, they were still living in the Court for now, for a lack of decision on where else to go. Others had done the same, and there was still a guard kept at the entrance, just in case, but there was now the option to go elsewhere, and to live up in the city. It was almost too much to adjust to at once, so it had been decided that transitions should happen slowly. And Porthos was more than happy with that. Porthos had lived in those stone catacombs since he had been a boy. It was strange that a place considered disturbing and dank to any common man was more a home to Porthos than anywhere else had been. It would be hard to let the Court go. Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan knew this, of course, and were unwilling to go anywhere that Porthos was not yet ready to, particularly because Porthos was still somewhat acting King of the Court for the stragglers of gypsies who were untrusting of the change. He understood how they felt.

For now, he had decided, just walking through the city was enough.

It was a warm summer day, bright and cheerful with a relieving cool breeze. Porthos, Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan had taken a day off, walking through the city that was still rebuilding from Richelieu’s fires. In a way, the four men were still rebuilding too. Porthos’ breaks and wounds were almost healed now, though his shoulder had scarred. Athos’ stomach was similar, a thin pink line revealing where Richelieu had tried to kill him. Aramis and d’Artagnan were mostly healed, with some scarring from the burns. They were all carrying scars of Richelieu now, but they were alive, and that was what mattered.

They had walked through and out of Paris, finding a secluded spot on the verges of the countryside beside the Seine. Porthos was laid out on the grass, face tilted up into the sun. Aramis was lying close, his head resting on Porthos' thigh.

Athos and d’Artagnan were on their feet. d’Artagnan had not danced since his feet had been burned. He and Aramis were walking, but had been afraid so far to try and dance like they had been able to. It had been a damn shame, because d’Artagnan was a natural born dancer, but with help from Athos, d’Artagnan had decided to try it again.

“And spin. Spin. Spin…” Athos was encouraging.

Porthos looked at them to find Athos standing still and steady, one arm behind his back. The other was raised up in the air, loosely holding d’Artagnan’s as the young man spun under his arm again and again. His bare feet, healed but bearing the signs of their trauma, were quick and light upon the grass as he spun.

“And spin…” Athos laughed when d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow at him as he turned but kept going, getting faster and faster, the gold medallions on his belt and the bangles on his wrists clinking as he did so.

Porthos noted the joyous smile breaking d’Artagnan’s handsome face, before Athos said, “And stop.”

d’Artagnan came to an abrupt stop, pressed up along Athos’ front, with Athos supporting him with a firm hand on his waist.

“See,” Athos said with a pleased smirk, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

d’Artagnan shook his head, “I reckon I’ll be back to rights by the end of the summer.”

Athos’ smirk softened to a fond grin as he ruffled d’Artagnan’s hair affectionately, “That’s my boy.”

Porthos was certain, even in the bright sunlight, that he saw d’Artagnan blush before he ducked his head slightly to kiss Athos soundly. He then grabbed hold of Athos and pulled him down onto the grass beside Porthos.

“You looked stunning, my star.” Aramis commented from Porthos’ other side. “It is good to see you dance again.”

d’Artagnan propped himself up on his elbows and rested his chin on Porthos’ stomach to eye the top of Aramis’ head, “You really should try it again, Aramis.”

Aramis’ shoulder pressed into Porthos’ side as he shrugged lazily, “Maybe later we’ll give it a go, hmm?”

“I’ll hold you to that.” d’Artagnan warned.

Aramis had been slower to recover than d’Artagnan and it had been equally wrong not seeing Aramis dance and sing as much as he had. But he was getting better. They all were.

Aramis turned around too, shifting so that he was pressed along Porthos’ side, stretching like a cat. “I count on it.” He promised d’Artagnan, before nuzzling into Porthos’ ear.

Porthos squirmed at the ticklish sensation before settling again, grinning up at Athos as the other man moved to lie down properly on the other side of d’Artagnan.

They lay quietly side by side for a while.

“d’Art, how did your afternoon tea with Constance and Jacques go?” Aramis piped up.

It had caused great amusement to learn of Jacques Bonacieux’s reluctant allowance of d’Artagnan to remain a constant in Constance’s life and, despite them all being both fond and respecting of the merchant, they were also amused by the recounting of the awkward meetings between d'Artagnan and Jacques.

“Just fine, thank you.” d’Artagnan said mock-petulantly, surprising them, “Until, of course, Constance suggested him meeting the three of you as well.”

Aramis laughed, “And what did he have to say to that?”

Porthos tried to imagine Jacques Bonacieux dealing with the four of them. He was civil with d’Artagnan because of d’Artagnan’s youth and innocence. But Athos, with his nobler birth right and quick sarcasm, Porthos with his blunt honesty and boisterous attitude, and Aramis’ downright joy in causing as much chaos as possible, would be quite a lot to contend with. He wondered what Jacques' face would look like seeing the four of them, with their gold shining jewellery, bright clothing and khol eyes all standing on his doorstep.

“He just gawped a while. Give him a month or two, he’ll come round.”

“Good.” Aramis said, “Because I am determined to meet Jacques Bonacieux. He sounds like fun.”

“Fun for you because you will tease him relentlessly.” Porthos scolded lightly, poking Aramis in the ribs.

“True.” Aramis did not bother denying it, his voice warm and relaxed next to Porthos’ neck.

“I asked if there was any news on Treville and Rochefort though.” d’Artagnan added.

Porthos frowned up at the sky. There had been rumblings of late about a new figure of authority emerging in Richelieu’s place; one of his creatures, Comte de Rochefort. It was unclear as to whether Rochefort was of the same mind and agenda as the Judge Richelieu or just taking his place in the hierarchy. Either way, Treville was wary of him.

“And?” Porthos urged, tilting his head to look at d’Artagnan.

d’Artagnan shook his head, “Nothing new to report, apparently. Do you think Rochefort will start reintroducing the patrols and arrests?”

“If he does, we will deal with it.” Athos promised, “We all knew that this peacetime might not last. We will just have to see how it plays out and adapt again. He may not cause problems for us at all after what happened to Richelieu, and Treville will have none of it, but if Rochefort does…” he trailed off.

“We should enjoy the peacetime while it lasts, then.” Aramis agreed.

“Speaking of which…” Porthos remembered, moving to sit up and leaving Aramis and d’Artagnan grumbling as they were jostled by the movement. Porthos sent them with a cheeky unapologetic grin. “I have an idea on how we can really use this peacetime for all its worth.”

It caught their interest, and a moment later the three of them were sitting up as well, gathering around as Porthos dug his hand into the cloth satchel he had brought with him.

Aramis let out a gleeful laugh when Porthos produced Puppet-Richelieu from his bag. Porthos had not performed a proper puppet show in years, because of the increasing patrols and the need for acts to be quick to pack up and escape, but Aramis and Athos had always been fond of the puppet shows that Porthos had performed in the 'old days'. The original Puppet-Richelieu was over a decade old, so Porthos had made some corrections and adjustments, strengthening him so that the beatings he would receive in the shows could be all the harder. He had also revamped Porthos-Puppet, which he held out to d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan grinned down at it. The younger man had seen puppet shows a couple of times when they were performed in the Court, but never out in the streets.

“This is a very handsome puppet.” d’Artagnan told him, “He looks kind of familiar.”

Porthos rolled his eyes and d’Artagnan hugged Porthos-Puppet to his chest. Puppet-Richelieu was left ignored on the grass.

“So,” Athos was watching him, intrigued, “What is this idea, then?”

“Well, I have some new, more attractive puppets.” He said, pulling out three other puppets and passing them to their respective lookalike.

Athos looked down at his puppet and Porthos’ favourite smirk formed on his lips as his fingers traced bright blue eyes and rugged brown hair. “I like this one.” Athos said. “He’s not as striking as Porthos-Puppet though.”

Porthos sent Athos a smile, leaning over to kiss him. Athos wound his fingers in Porthos’ hair, blue eyes closing briefly. When they pulled apart, d’Artagnan was making Puppet-d’Artagnan and Porthos-Puppet dance with each other, so he seemed pleased.

Aramis was frowning at his.

“What’s wrong with you?” Porthos asked.

“This puppet has a better beard than me.” Aramis complained.

Aramis was convinced that his beard would never return to its ‘former glory’. Though that was more of Aramis’ fault that anything else, because for the first few months of recovery he had noted how his hairless face had been something of a turn-on for his lovers, and for a little while, he had kept clean shaven. Now, though, he wanted it back, but it was still in the stages of heavy stubble. He kept making woeful complaints about the fact that it might not ever be the same. Porthos doubted that.

“You’ll have yours back before too long.” He told him.

Aramis sighed dramatically, “Someday, someday.” He then inspected Aramis-Puppet further, before making a delighted sound, “He has a tiny rosary!” His hand automatically flew to his own. Treville had managed to track it down from the men who had stripped them of their weapons and possessions in the Court and had given it back. Aramis had been even more possessive of it since then. “These are wonderful Porthos.” He told him.

“And what are these wonderful puppets going to be doing?” Athos asked, though Porthos could tell Athos already knew the answer from the smug, knowing quirk of his eyebrow.

“I thought we would tell our story.” He said, “Show people about our people being wrongfully condemned, and show them what Richelieu was.”

“Does this mean there is going to be a Puppet-Treville?” Aramis asked gleefully.

“Eventually.” Porthos grinned, “I’m working on it.”

“And is Puppet-Porthos going to re-enact the scene where he lifts Aramis-Puppet above his head and yells ‘Sanctuary’?!”

“You are never going to let me live that one down.”

Porthos cursed himself and Athos and everyone else for telling Aramis about that.

“Why not?” Aramis grinned, “It is my ultimate favourite part of the story.”

“Just because you got to do something dramatic.”

“Please, you were bleeding out all over the place. I was unconscious. You made it dramatic, not me.”

“It is your favourite part of the story, and yet it is the only part you do not remember.” Athos remarked.

Aramis laughed, “Not true. I was not there for the beginning. You and Porthos were.” He leant over to kiss Athos and then pulled Porthos to him by the collar to kiss him, too. “d’Artagnan and I want to hear it from the beginning. Don’t we d’Art?”

d’Artagnan nodded eagerly. “From the beginning.” He encouraged, earning a proud smile from Aramis, ever his bad influence.

“So,” Aramis said to Porthos, “Are we going to get a mini-performance now? How did that old song of yours used to go?” Aramis immediately began manoeuvring everybody, so that Porthos was facing them, the puppets laid out before him, and Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan were piled together to watch.

Porthos looked at Aramis’ arms wrapped tightly around d’Artagnan’s chest, and the way that Athos’ limbs were caught up between them, arm and legs tangled in the mix, more relaxed now that he had ever been, and how d’Artagnan leaned up to press a kiss to the underside of Aramis’ stubbled jaw.

Porthos smiled softly, and could not help thinking back to all those years ago when he sat alone, huddled on the street, wondering if every day would be the same, if he would always be treated like an outcast, wondering if anyone would ever care. That had been before a blue-eyed, curious noble boy had come walking down the street and into his life.

And then a mysterious, handsome stranger from a travelling troupe had, quite literally, been placed in to his arms. And then a Gascon boy with dark eyes and a bright smile had followed.

He found three pairs of eyes watching him closely, loving him and waiting upon his every word. He cleared his throat. In the distance he could hear the bells of Notre Dame start chiming the hour, loud and clear. He began to sing;

 

 _“Morning in Paris, the city awakes,_  
_to the bells of Notre Dame._  
_The fisherman fishes, the baker man bakes,_  
_to the bells of Notre Dame._  
_To the big bells as loud as the thunder,_  
_to the little bells soft as a psalm,_  
_and some say the soul of the city’s the toll of the bell._  
_The bells of Notre Dame._

  
_Here is a riddle, to guess if you can,_  
_sing the bells of Notre Dame._  
_What makes a monster and what makes a man?_  
_Sing the bells, bells, bells of Notre Dame.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So folks, we have reached the end. I would like to thank everyone who has read, commented, left kudos or bookmarked this fic. I really appreciate your kindness and am so pleased you have enjoyed the story. I would love to hear how you enjoyed this last chapter, and the story as a whole!
> 
> Secondly, I would like to urge you all to give Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame a watch, if you have not seen it or have not watched it in a while (it's on Netflix!). It really is an animated masterpiece and the darkest Disney has ever gone, but one of its most underrated films. The soundtrack (composed by Alan Menken and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz) is, in my opinion, one of the most epic soundtracks of all time.  
> Credit goes to Stephen Schwartz and the script writers of Hunchback for inspiration for some of the dialogue for this fic, and of course, to the Musketeers for being such wonderful muses.
> 
> If any of you were interested, I have listed which Musketeer-characters 'played' which Hunchback-characters (the boys in particular were shared out amongst the characters):  
> Quasimodo: d’Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, Milady, Constance, Phillip  
> Esmeralda: d’Artagnan, Aramis, Porthos, Athos  
> Phoebus: Treville, Athos  
> Clopin: Porthos, Flea, Charon, Aramis  
> Claude Frollo: Richelieu  
> Hugo, Victor and Laverne: Aramis
> 
> Thank you for reading once again. Much love to you all.


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